


Courting Death

by theproblematique



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:12:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theproblematique/pseuds/theproblematique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester lived the first six months of his life in a happy family; the next twelve years as John Winchester's only son, and the last decade as an orphan. He's supposed to die at twenty-two trying to save the woman he loves from a fire, because he doesn't have a brother to pull him back. But the night Sam meets his Reaper he discovers that Death is overly fond of pop-culture references, too beautiful to be real, and reluctant to kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Courting Death](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397923) by [merrick_ds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrick_ds/pseuds/merrick_ds)



> Please check the Livejournal Masterpost for detailed warnings if you want them! Given the nature of this fic and the topics it deals with, there are multiple references to death and death lore, as well as more than one mention of "acting suicidal" (on par with the way the boys sometimes act in the show).
> 
> LINK: http://afattribble.livejournal.com/16083.html
> 
> Beta'ed by the invaluable alienass. Inevitable last-minute editing makes all remaining mistakes mine.
> 
> French translation by the lovely inesw can be found here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11945942/1/Courting-Death-Séduire-la-mort

 

When Death comes to Sam for the first time, Sam's in no position to feel much of anything. He’s not afraid or anxious or even, to be quite honest, mildly concerned for his own wellbeing. Instead he stares at the figure and thinks, numbly: _so this is how it gets people to follow it into the dark or the light or whatever._

_Huh._

The male form is exquisitely crafted and obviously designed to attract and entrance; to capture. Someone somewhere gave it green eyes that glow supernaturally bright, and features so perfect the first adjective that comes to Sam is _computer-generated_. The hint of stubble on that firm jaw paired with plush lips and a strong nose makes it a study in contradictions; the kind of beauty that begs the question of who put it together because, for all its miracles, nature couldn't conceive such an impossible person on its own.

"Samuel Winchester?" it asks, in a pantomime of politeness.

They both know it knows who he is, and the exact second when his heart gave out.

Sam stares at Death for a long moment, registers the perfectly cut black suit it’s wearing over broad shoulders and becomes distantly aware that his own clothes are half-torn and still smoking. There's red dripping down his fingertips as well but he doesn't feel any pain. He feels like a copy of his body that’s only identical on the outside; a shell with no blood-vessels or nerves or viscera.

"You need to come with me, Sam.”

His first thought is ‘yes’. Yes, so that he can see Jessica again. Yes so that he can selfishly beg for forgiveness, plead at her feet, grovel and apologize for what he now knows to be the worst thing he’s ever done in his life.

But a moment's consideration is enough to realize that of course Sam won’t get anywhere near Jess. If this really is the afterlife their souls will be as far from each other as possible: hers high and pure, his locked down among the tainted and the criminal.

“Sam? C’mon, man.”

Sam turns and runs.

Fuelled by aching bitter disappointment that death isn't the end after all, Sam runs determined to get back to the world. If he won't find the sweet relief of nothingness here, if he can't have some sort of _tabula rasa,_ he wants answers, and once he's found them he wants to tear the culprit apart with his bare hands. If his absolution will be in the form of revenge, so be it.

He needs to get back to the world of the living.

“Hey--whoa!”

Death is waiting for him when he rounds a corridor and, incorporeal the both of them, Sam still skids frantically to avoid a collision. His ungainly flailing gets him a raised eyebrow.

"Slow down, kid. Haven't you heard you can’t outrun—“ Sam is off again before Death can finish its sentence.

This time Gorgeous and Green-Eyed gives merry chase, seeming to enjoy the pretense of a persecution.

"You don't seriously think you can escape me, right?"

Sam shuts his eyes and moves blindly forwards, aware that he must be going through walls and people and beds and tables.

"Where exactly do you think you're gonna go that I can't find you?"

Eventually Sam opens his eyes to find that the apparition has gotten ahead of him and is now running backwards, facing him.

There's something like a grin on its face.

"This is fun," Death says in the body of a digitally retouched supermodel.

Sam's life is _weird_ , and were this any other circumstance he might have laughed.

He's about to reply when Dr Lana McCullogh orders the pads charged to 200 and Sam's heart starts beating again.

 

 


	2. Vita sugit

It took a lot of miracles for Sam to live, apparently. He didn't inhale enough smoke to die. Didn't stay in the heat long enough for the flames to char the flesh off his bones. Didn't dehydrate too badly, didn't fracture his spine, and somehow avoided hyperthermia. He also miraculously escapes infection; as though his blood is so dirty not even bacteria want to eat at the soft tissue.

The price he pays for his life is a series of blistering second-degree burns on his hands, his thighs and his forearms, and severe third-degree ones on his back (sustained when the fiery chunks of ceiling started falling on it). The latter are by far the worst: horrific gashes around skin sizzled and half-melted away so that the muscle-fibers are exposed to the elements, pain beyond anything Sam’s ever experienced.

Everywhere else feels sandpaper-scraped and his nose peels disgustingly for weeks and weeks after. The wounds will take a long time to heal and they will scar thick and deep and disgusting—but they still won't represent one iota of the pain Sam feels because Jess is dead and all he did was look into the potential Woman in White case two towns over.

The pattern was too obvious, people were dying, and all he had to do was salt and burn her bones. One last hunt, he'd told himself. He’d dreamt of Jess dying in different horrific ways a thousand times, so surely these latest were just on par with his regular nightmares. He’d forgotten what normal dreams are even like; he’d thought it was just more of the same old fears recycled by his subconscious to mess him up.

He ignored the warnings and killed the love of his life through _negligence_.

Unfortunately, his recovery involves long hours spent lying on his stomach with nothing to do but think, and he swings between seething rage and bottomless misery constantly. Blaming himself is no more than his due, the physical pain less than he deserves after everything he's done. Choosing not to hunt was bad enough, all those lives on his conscience... but that the one hunt that he ended up giving into resulted in this...?

In the end, Sam grits his teeth and does the absolute minimum amount of physical therapy before he can be cleared to leave the hospital. Standing over Jess' grave is how he manages to accept the fact that he can't change or fix what happened. He can't bring her back, so he moves on to the next best thing.

Now that he understands his father in a way he never did before, he's going to finish the job John Winchester started.

*

Sam has lived with a constant awareness of death.

His family shrank by half when he was only six months old and Sam grew up with a father whose every waking moment revolved around those deaths. John Winchester grieved his wife and son daily, and as unobtrusive as Sam tried to be there never seemed to be enough space for him and their ghosts together.

Sam learned to miss people he'd never met. Thinking of his Mother was difficult; a concept so beautiful and alien he could only vaguely imagine it, but Dean... Dean was Sam's favorite.

John hadn’t liked Sam asking a lot of questions but Sam had liked not knowing things less, so he'd stubbornly managed to extract vague descriptions of his savior; enough scraps to form a shining, idealized collage of the boy who saved a baby from a burning building at four freaking years old. For a very long time Dean starred in Sam's fantasies as the larger-than-life superhero that somehow survived the fire and swept in at the eleventh hour to turn their two-person unit into a real family. He would rescue Sam from the constant moving that came with the hunting life and cure Dad of his obsession with finding the thing that killed Mom. He would never be afraid of the dark. He would protect Sam, and he would always know what to do.

It wasn’t until John died that Sam finally gave up on hope.

He was twelve, terrified, and thrust into adulthood in the most brutal manner possible. Angry and teenaged, all alone in a world he'd never been allowed to become a part of, Sam had taken John’s death as some sort of sign. He had stayed on at school despite the shadow of guilt and grief that attached itself permanently to his too-long frame, and he endured the foster home until he was old enough to leave.

College led him to his first tentative friendships and then Jess, and it finally started to look like Sam got himself the life Dad had always promised he could never have... only to discover ten years later that the monsters could follow him into the civilian world, too.

Death took the only other person Sam had dared to love, and it did so in the form of the yellow-eyed demon John had been so obsessed with killing.

So maybe repetition can dull even the most horrific things, or maybe grief batters fear until it turns hard like a callus. Either way, Sam no longer fears death.

Which doesn't mean he's gonna make things easy on it. He's got a job to do.

*

The second time Sam sees Him (not God, of course--Sam stopped praying every night once he realized Dean wasn't coming, no one was listening) it's because of the spirit of a child in a lake, pulling innocents down to avenge a wrong decades past.

Sam has drowned. He barely made it through a month alone.

 _Fuck_.

"We meet again, _ese_ ," a voice says in a thick, dramatic Chicano accent.

Sam leaps up from his body and swears when it remains decidedly prone and waterlogged. He's not at the bottom of the lake right now because they managed to pull him out, and he did save the kid, at least, but the dad's long gone. Andrea is trying to roll him over to start CPR.

"You gonna run again, Sam?" Death says. It's not exactly a warning, more like it's making an honest assessment.

"Wouldn't tell you if I was," Sam shoots back automatically. He can't quite believe he's clocked out already. After everything he’s gone through these past few weeks to get together some supplies, form a coherent plan, relearn the things he’s been trying to forget since he was twelve and teach himself everything else...

He realizes he’s angry. He'd never hunted alone before, he was only just getting his sea legs. He can't die yet. He has a _purpose_.

"Look dude, it's not as bad as all that," Death is saying. "Not sure if you're going up or down, but at least you died pretty." It winks at Sam, like this is a game. Maybe to Death it is. Maybe it gets bored, too.

Sadly for Sam he does not at this point in time realize that Death seems to be _flirting_ with him.

"I can't die yet," he informs the apparition.

It shrugs. "You're tellin' me, but it ain't exactly my choice, pal. You dove in there and Casper got you, fair and square. I was watching."

"I had to save--you were watching me?"

“Not by choice.” A snort. “Like I'd spend my downtime stalking blundering hunters taller than Bigfoot when I can zap myself to the Busty Asian Beauties studio by clicking my fingers.” There’s a suspiciously wistful, faraway look on its borrowed model-face by the end of that sentence.

Sam clears his throat incredulously.

“Huh? Right. What I meant is: appointments are pre-arranged. I have to be there a little early to witness the events and 'facilitate a smooth transition'. It's in my contract."

Well. The whole process certainly feels a little less ceremonial than Sam has been lead to believe. He decides to ignore his chagrin and take advantage of the situation. If anything, this is a unique opportunity for knowledge.

"How does that work?" he asks, earnestly pushing his dripping fringe from his eyes. It's weird--he feels more alive now than he has over the past few weeks, and he’s gone from burning to drowning in a depressingly short time. "I didn't die last time and you still came."

"You did too!" It says defensively. "You died, but you were brought back."

Sam has the sudden irrational idea that maybe he can _argue_ his way out of dying. "So what if I'm brought back this time?"

Silence. Death looks... weirdly shifty.

" _Am_ I brought back this time?"

And suddenly he's gasping and choking and water burns his throat and nose as he coughs it out, and he's alive.

*

There's a faith healer up in Nebraska who lives surrounded by a very specific and very telling pattern of ‘accidental’ deaths. One for every person healed, in fact. Turns out his wife had managed to capture and enslave a Reaper, and it's then that Sam learns quite a lot of important things.

First, he learns exactly what a Reaper is. For all his research, the lore frequently contradicted itself and he'd never encountered one of the creatures as a child tagging along after his father--John might have, but he and his precious journal vanished long ago. So, Sam hadn't been sure until now that there was more than one bringer of Death.

Second, he notes that the Reaper is nothing like the apparition Sam's seen before. He only catches a glimpse of it when he's being choked, but as his vision is about to black out it appears right in front of him.

It looks like a skeletal corpse, for one thing, and it doesn't speak. It makes him think of a deadly automaton.

Sam has to destroy the altar in order to free it, and the healer's wife Sue-Ann dies before he can learn how to summon a Reaper for his own. Not to use, of course, but... he has so many questions.

(Briefly he wonders about what he'd do if someone offered him Jess' life in exchange for the death of some unknown civilian. He wonders how he'd live with himself after, how he'd tell her-- _if_ he'd tell her. It doesn't really surprise him to realize that if that were possible, he might have considered it during those desperate, sleepless, alcohol-soaked first days.)

The pattern of scars on his back itches and burns and when he touches it sensations are weirdly dulled.

*

His visions get worse. More frequent, more painful, and much, much more vivid.

He's gotten much better at the job, so he starts ignoring hunts in favor of scouring the country looking for signs of a demon with a penchant for burning beloved people on ceilings. He's late every time. A guy called Max murders his parents by moving things with his mind in one of Sam's more vivid visions, but Max is long gone by the time Sam finds the house, and becomes impossible to find even in dreams.

If there is a pattern, it’s so ridiculously widespread that Sam can't see it.

There are no near-death experiences for months, and strangely Sam begins to feel numbed again instead of invigorated. He worries about it for a while, wondering whether this makes him an adrenalin junkie, if _dying_ can really constitute an adrenalin rush. He looks into Death lore more thoroughly but finds next to nothing useful, and _nada_ to explain the difference between his Reaper and the one he saw in Nebraska.

He trains hard and betters his aim, his speed and his muscle mass. Staying focused is easy when he spends days at a time without talking to anyone. His most meaningful conversations involve the reception desk at the motel he’s checking into when the cramps in his back become unbearable, too long spent sleeping in the backseat of whatever car he's managed to hijack.

He avoids hitchhikers on principle, but there is one girl he can’t turn down. She’s alone in the middle of nowhere and (Sam hates himself a little for the thought but he can’t help it) much too petite and attractive to be safe. She propositions him two hours into the drive, with this breezy nonchalance that says she’ll be fine with his answer either way. She's blonde and feisty and Sam can't.

She says 'no hard feelings' with this smile like she knows something Sam doesn't.

Her name is Meg, and Sam really hopes he never sees her again.

*

He deals the shtriga a killing shot, knows he did even as he's losing all feeling in his limbs; the gaping, draining sensation intensifying to a nauseating height as his soul is literally suctioned out of his body--through his _mouth_. It’s worse than anything he's ever had the misfortune to feel before, worse than the burns during the first few days when he refused to take his pain meds. There's a horrible creeping numbness that would make him vomit if he could, if he wasn't being forcefully hollowed out.

At least Michael is safe, he thinks.

The thing dies before it can consume Sam, but he's already half out of his body. There's a weird grounding pull somewhere behind him and a dizzying stretch forward and after a minute that might have been a thousand years he tugs and writhes desperately until... he's sitting on the floor, staring at his own body.

Shit.

"Now what, genius?" says a voice behind him.

Sam turns to glare at his Reaper.

The creature looks slightly less Ken doll in the dark of nighttime (still retouched magazine-cover material but more GQ; less Teen Pop).

"So you're required to see me every time even though I'm going to come back to life," Sam says.

"Who says you're coming back this time?"

"The shtriga is dead."

"So are you."

"Am I?" Sam lifts his chin up challengingly. He may be outside his body but he could swear his blood is thrumming with something like actual emotion for the first time in months.

Something like adrenalin.

The Reaper smiles a little. "Do you think I'd be here if you weren't?"

"Yes," Sam replies immediately. "Because death is relative, isn't it? Technically, I haven't died any of the times I've seen you."

A look of grudging respect comes over the apparition's features. "You drowned," it says, or prompts, really, because it's clearly interested in Sam's response.

"My heart stopped," Sam corrects, sure he's right now. "My lungs flooded. But true death, _clinical_ death happens eight to ten minutes after that, with brain death."

"Not bad, geek-boy."

"I did some research," he concedes. "And my name's Sam."

"I know. Geek-boy."

There's a short pause.

"So... is there a way to get back into my body?" he asks.

It leers approvingly. "Kinky."

"Dude, you know what I mean."

"Well," the Reaper arranges itself more comfortably on the floor, still smirking slightly. "According to your own estimate you have about six minutes left. And counting."

He doesn't offer anything even remotely helpful.

"Thanks," Sam mutters, and walks gingerly over to his body. His eyes are wide and unseeing, mouth slightly open and veins bulging in his temples. It's... unflattering. He's surprised he cares.

He tries simply fitting himself into the flesh but all that does is make him float gently through himself, the bed and then the floor, and he would have probably kept going if he hadn't realized what was happening.

He tries imagining himself turning into that bright pulsing light and crawling back into his mouth, but according to his Death it just makes him look constipated.

"Three minutes," the model calls cheerfully after a bit.

Sam really wishes he could punch it in the face.

"I can't... I don't know how," he grits out, an edge of fear curbing his determination. "Can you tell me?"

"Nope."

"Not even a hint?" Okay, he may be starting to panic. A bit. "Please."

He turns to look at it, desperate.

The Reaper heaves a heavy sigh. "Lore," it says on exhale.

"Lore?"

"Yup. Obvious, really."

"Not to me," Sam grits out.

The creature stands up, brushing invisible dust off its suit. "The most basic lore. It's everywhere. How do you wake up the comatose princess?"

Sam gets it two seconds later. "Are you fucking with me?" he snaps. "Because this is a really bad time--"

"I'm not fucking with you."

"I have to _kiss myself_?"

"Told you it was kinky. Oh, and you have a minute left."

Sam lurches forward and kneels beside his body, figuring he might as well get this over with before trying something that might actually work--

He never actually feels his own lips, but suddenly there's an airy, weightless sensation all through him and then that swooping unequivocal jolt, like landing.

He jerks upright and manages to roll over before throwing up bile against the side of the bed; it’s disgusting, green and viscous because he hadn't eaten all day.

Alive. Again.

Great.

*

"I _said_ : do you have a partner?"

Sam had known, objectively, that he couldn't be the only hunter in the country, but after almost a year on his own out there he hadn’t run into another one, only heard of them through the creatures he caught. He hadn't given it much thought, to be honest, but in some corner of his mind the image of a gruff middle-aged dude with a shotgun had formed. The man smelled of alcohol and had a manic gleam to his eyes. He sounded like Dad.

And now here’s this girl who couldn't tip a scale soaking wet and she's bested him with experienced ease.

Not... exactly what he'd been expecting.

"Hey, stay with me! Do you have a partner?"

"N-no," he manages.

The girl's eyes widen in exasperation. "You went after a vamp nest _alone_? There's no one we can call?"

"Yes.” A pause for a ragged breath. “And no."

She ties the cloth tighter and springs upright, urgency in her every move. "Then you are the dumbest hunter I've ever met, and a danger to yourself and others.” There's something almost mothering about her scolding tone. "What the hell were you thinking taking on Eli and his coven all by yourself?"

Admittedly, Sam's lost a bit of blood.

"We need to get you to a hospital. Mom! Dad! Did you call 911?"

The vampires... they kept saying he tasted good. Different. Couldn't stop drinking--ended up fighting over his pulse points; fanged mouths snapping at each other, jostling for space near his wrists, his neck, his thighs...

Okay, 'a bit of blood' may be an understatement.

"We need to clear the vamps first," says another female voice. Deeper, and wearier. "This looks like a crime scene, Jo, you know we can't bring doctors here."

"But he'll be dead any second!"

"Then you take him to the hospital," a man says firmly. "Your mother and I need to stay here. Several of the suckers are still only knocked out and the dead man's blood won't hold them forever.”

“It's a fifteen minute drive, dad, I don't think this guy has it in him.”

“We have no other choice."

Sam's eyesight is beginning to fade. The effect is curiously gentle--like the glow filter they put on the women in Jess’ Original Series Star Trek DVDs. It makes this girl, Jo, look like an angel.

"Fine. Oh shit, his leg--give me your belt," she orders one of the two figures who join her. The man starts obeying immediately and Sam registers, late; _'Mom! Dad!'_.

So he's been rescued by an actual family of hunters. How... quaint.

"Christ. They freaking _mauled_ him... this isn’t what a bite mark usually looks like, is it?”

"Not even close, no."

There's an increase of pressure around his right thigh and his heart is pounding so hard and fast Sam fears it might bruise the inside of his ribcage.

He passes out.

And then he's outside his body again, which might mean the situation is a bit worse than a ‘fainting spell’.

"This is gettin' to be a thing, cowboy. You're fast becoming my best customer," a gruff voice says.

Sam looks down at himself, at the blood flowing down his body in quantities that shouldn't really be possible. He wonders what this state means, if this is really his soul (and if it is, it's shaped exactly like his body, but he can't see any grotesque scars). He wants to know why he didn't see this apparition when he lost consciousness before. Where is the exact line? When is one's body close enough to death that it warrants a Reaper, a messenger, or whatever the hell Sam's Death is?

"I thought your best customers were the ones who didn't return."

That earns him a mild snort. "Guess not."

"So you already know whether I'm going to live or not? How does that work?"

"Well, I took one look at you and figured you were a tease." It smirks, but it’s half-hearted this time and fades fast. Concern on features like those really accentuates the great big eyes, for some reason. "You should really be more careful. That was basically a kamikaze move, you know that right?"

It's the same tone Jo used. Reproach. Worry.

It's... weird. Sam's spent all this time hunting without anyone caring about or even knowing his whereabouts--it's slightly overwhelming to have two people (or, well, a person and a humanoid minion of the underworld) express interest in his wellbeing within five minutes of each other.

"I'm sorry, _Death_ , are you trying to give me survival tips?"

"No. And you can't call me _Death_." It sounds almost affronted.

“Would you prefer Dee?”

"Dude, I'm not Death. I'm just a--"

"Reaper?"

Sam flicks his gaze up to that unreal face. The creature bites a full lower lip and shoots him an uncertain look.

"... Sure."

"You're nothing like the other Reapers I’ve seen," Sam pushes, sensing weakness. The plural is a gamble, but the look on his Death’s face tells him it was the right one.

"If you must know, I'm a very special snowflake." Sam raises a skeptical eyebrow, and it blows out a breath. "Fine. It’s true, I'm not... exactly like other Reapers."

A- _ha_.

Damn if that doesn’t just make Sam a million times more curious—and determined.

"What, then?" he says. "What are you 'exactly'?"

“Will you look at that, they’re leaving.”

It’s true; the small family of hunters is carrying his body to the car. His Death starts after them and Sam follows hurriedly, matching it incorporeal step by incorporeal step. He can’t help noting that the creature seems to be making sure there’s a healthy amount of distance between them. Can they touch, Sam wonders, or would he just pass through? He certainly overcomes the warehouse's grimy wall with ease, and he could probably sink into the ground if he wanted, too.

"You didn’t answer my question,” Sam ventures again.

"And I’m not planning on it. C’mon, we're gonna lose your body."

"What would happen if we did?"

“Anyone ever tell you what killed the cat, George?” Its tone is supposed to be exasperated, Sam can tell, but there's a touch of helpless fondness in those eyes.

"A double reference, good for you. Since when is curiosity a crime? It's not like there's anyone I can tell."

He purposefully emulates the reasonable, reassuring expression that he uses on civilians... and what do you know, for a second there it looks like his Death is about to cave.

"Please. What would happen?"

Its features soften and pink lips part to answer almost automatically, before the creature seems to realize what it’s doing. Looking mildly alarmed, the Reaper shakes its head as if to clear it and forces an awkward chuckle. "Let’s just say you don't wanna find out. Trust me."

“ _Trust_ y—“ And suddenly Sam is back. Awake.

It feels like being trapped, and not just because Jo has tied at least five tourniquets around his various limbs. He can’t breathe and he can’t see the man in the suit anymore and his chest hurts so bad he can’t speak.

“Hang in there, oh large and suicidal one,” Jo mutters from the driver’s seat. “Come on, just hold on, we’re practically—“

The pain won’t stop climbing until part of Sam becomes convinced he’s wishing for Death so badly that it's shimmering into existence out of the corner of his eye. If he lets his head loll to the side he can almost imagine the green-eyed supermodel sitting in the shotgun seat and staring back at him.

If he ignores all sense and reason he can delude himself into believing it cares that he’s going to die.

“D…” he manages through clumsy-numb lips. “D-d…”

“Don’t talk, moron,” Jo snaps. “Just concentrate on not dying, okay? We’re almost there.”

They arrive at the hospital minutes later and Jo manages to get help carrying Sam’s admittedly above-average-sized body onto a gurney and into the building.

An intern jostles him a little during a turn and he's out again for an indeterminate period of blissful blackness before regaining his senses as a disembodied spirit, looking down at his body on a bed. They’ve put two bags of fluids over him, one catheter in each arm, and a doctor is in the process of intubating him. There’s a disheartening amount of blood soaking through his clothes and into the bed sheets.

His Death is standing by the foot of the bed, and Sam has to admit that they make quite a picture: Sam dirty and pale and spattered red while the Ken doll in the perfectly unruffled suit watches him with a subtly fretful expression.

Sam finds himself wanting its eyes on him—real him, _spirit_ -him, not his limp half-dead body.

"So... 'Dee' it is, then?"

It works; the creature startles and turns to look at him. Then it seems to register what Sam said, and concern turns to horror.

"Dude, no."

"Dude, yes." Sam smiles and knows that if he were in his body right now the muscles would ache from disuse. He’s dying and he hasn’t felt this happy in a very long time, but GQ’s delicate frown could almost be described as caring and it makes something starved and hopeful come alive in Sam's chest.

He takes a step towards his favorite monster.

"If you don’t like it all you gotta do is tell me what your real name is."

It scowls at him.

"What if I don't have a name?"

Sam doesn't hesitate. "Then that would be tragic, but also a lie."

The corner of that mouth pulls up seemingly helplessly. "Touché."

"I’m gonna call you Dee if you don't tell me.”

"I can’t tell you my name, Sammy."

"Ah, but you do have one."

Sam steps closer and his Reaper eyes him warily, but doesn’t move back. In the background, white-coats swish and blur, and shapes in red-spattered scrubs move frantically around his body.

“Can’t or won’t?”

Closer. This is the closest they’ve ever been. Sam is struck by the desire to reach out and touch the creature that passes so unnervingly for a man, if only to shove playfully at a broad shoulder or flick it in the arm, something.

"Why do you want to know?"

Sam shrugs, and forces nonchalance when he says: "I get why you won't tell me exactly what you are, but refusing to tell me your name just seems like bad manners."

"I'm serious, dude," his Death says. Its wide eyes seem to be indicating that the banter portion of this evening is over.

Time for the big guns, then.

Sam adopts his most earnest pleading expression, leaning in as much as he dares so that the creature is forced to tilt its head back and up to meet his gaze. "I just... want. Please," he says softly, unsure himself of why this is suddenly so important to him but unable to care. It's the truth though, he does just _want_ ; he's always had a thing for knowledge, and he wants to know this so badly it's kind of driving him insane.

The Reaper steps back, stumbles on something invisible, and goes through a nurse and half a code-cart. It steadies itself on thin air and rubs the back of its neck, and Sam is delighted to note that the creature seems both flustered and embarrassed. Shy, almost?

"I-I... not all Reapers have names,” it says. Then it shakes its head. "But yeah, I do, so… if you really wanna know that bad, I guess I can tell you."

"Really?"

"Don't push your luck, kid." It pauses for a deep breath. "This is stupid," it mutters. "I probably shouldn’t be..." Then it shakes its head and smiles self-deprecatingly, shuffling his feet. "Screw it."

Sam waits patiently for the moment when the bright green gaze flits up to snag with his own, and then it does, and his Death gives one sharp exhale and finally says:

"Dean. My name is Dean."

Sam goes cold.

"Excuse me?"

The creature seems to sense the immediate change in atmosphere, because it shoots Sam a cautious look, like it’s afraid it said something wrong. "I said... m'name? It's Dean." When Sam doesn't respond it adds: "I've also been called Sex God but I figure it has less of a ring to--"

"Are you serious?"

"Uh. Yeah."

Of all the names it could have picked. Of all the... well. It's not like Death would know, is it? At least, not this being, not Sam's Reaper who claims to have a boss and speaks of contracts and appointments. This seemingly self-proclaimed grunt can't be as cruel as to pick the name of the hero Sam worshipped for over a decade, the symbol of all his innocent hope.

"Is it...? Do you not--I mean," the creature clears its throat, and the worried hesitation is obviously forced out of that sweet-rough voice when it speaks. "I'm not really supposed to disclose it so a bit of gratitude wouldn't be amiss, y'know?"

"I'm... no, it's just. I lost someone called Dean." Even saying the name is like sacrilege. Dean belongs to the same figurative altar that Jess does; he's one of the few (maybe the only) good, pure things from Sam's childhood.

"Oh." It looks mildly guilty. "Sorry, I guess."

"It was a long time ago. I just didn't expect..." Sam forces the memories away, the slight aching feeling the word evokes. "Anyway, _I'm_ sorry. It's not important."

His Reaper makes a face. "Is it gonna be weird from now on?"

"Oh, definitely." Sam manages a smile and sticks his hand out. "But maybe we could start all over again?"

The creature--Dean, it's-his name is Dean--doesn't shake it. "Sounds good to me." He attempts a weak grin in return. "Sorry about your friend, man."

"No, it's fine."

The silence goes on, even though it isn't actually silence because the loud beeping of the monitors and the frantic voices of the hospital personnel make for rather unusual background noise.

"Calling me Dee is still weird and off the table, FYI," Dean offers.

"Right." Sam steels himself for what he wants to say next. "So... last name would be pushing it, huh?"

The Reaper snorts. " _Yes_." But then his features soften into something sadder, almost vulnerable. "Truth is I don't have one, actually." He shrugs like it's no big deal, as if Sam couldn't see right through that. "Or if I did, I can't remember."

Wait a minute.

"Do you mean you weren't always a Reaper?" he blurts out before he can stop himself.

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and says, in the voice of an automated phone agent (who moonlights as a sex-line operator because Dean’s voice is as impossibly alluring as the rest of him): "I'm sorry, you've exceeded your quota of annoying questions for the day. To continue indulging in your super-disturbing knowledge-fetish, please try again sometime... hm, let's see..." his arms drop. " _Never_."

"Oh come on, does it really matter? I'm probably dead for good this time," Sam argues, figuring he might as well. "I mean, losing all that blood will send me into hypovolemic shock for sure."

There's a beat of silence.

Suddenly his Reaper--Dean looks suspiciously shifty.

Sam's jaw drops. "No way."

"Actually..."

" _Seriously_? But I lost so much blood! No one should survive something like that!"

"You're a freak, congratulations."

 _Freak_. That word has always been something of a sore spot, but Sam ignores the twinge of weariness. "Great. Well, thanks. That's super comforting. Don't they give you guys courses or something before sending you off to Reap people?"

"What, like 'Dealing With Super-sized Hunters For Beginners'?"

"Come on, how long have you even been doing this anyway?"

"Well I failed 'Intro To Geeky Boys With Great Asses Who Just Won't Die' a couple times, to tell you the truth."

"Yeah? Was 'Hitting On The Dead 101' booked up by the time you made it?"

His Reaper laughs delightedly--laughs, Dean _laughs_ \--and claps his hands, eyes bright and crinkling at the corners. "Sammy bringing the sass! I _like_ it!"

Sam rolls his eyes but his insides are sparking and dancing. He doesn't know what it is about this creature with no last name--this anomaly even in the world of monsters, this harbinger of Death who is not like other Reapers--that lights him up inside as if somebody shoved a firecracker into his chest seconds before explosion. He only knows that it feels exhilarating in a way nothing else about his life is, and he almost wishes—

" _We have a pulse_!"

"Jesus Christ, somebody up there loves this kid--"

*

More time passes and Sam meets other hunters; some of them, like Jo, exact opposites of what he'd imagined and others, like Bobby Singer, just as he'd pictured. Funnily enough, he keeps in touch with them both. Apparently Bobby had known his father, but John hadn’t told the hunting community that he had a son. _To protect you, of course_ , Bobby says, and Sam knows it to be true, but somehow still can’t bring himself to ask for stories. He forgave John for his absences long ago, but the memory of losing him isn’t something Sam’s eager to revisit.

It is during this time, however, that even immersed in his research and his mission Sam starts to form tentative bonds with the outside world again. There are people that actually care that Sam Winchester exists now, and they would be upset if he were to, you know, stop existing. Or, well, at the very least if something happened these guys would _notice_.

He doesn't really understand why, to be honest. They call him up to give him cases and casually inquire as to his eating habits; particularly Ellen, Jo’s mother, and Bobby Singer, who seem to be the two in charge of making sure he’s taking minimal care of himself. Honestly, Sam is more confused than truly grateful (case in point; Bobby gives him a protective amulet and he stuffs it in his duffel and promptly forgets to ever wear it).

Maybe being alone for a year has dulled his ability to recognize affection when he sees it, or maybe he just finds it hard to believe anyone could genuinely _like_ a strange, quiet, perpetually morose hunter who spends half his days with his nose in a book.

Either way, Sam is undeterred from his mission.

He still thinks of Jess every day. He remembers his father with a surge of love and pity he hadn't quite managed before all this happened. He even lets himself think of Mary again, and, once, catches himself trying to imagine his brother Dean—not as the Captain America-esque figure he’d longed for as a kid but as a friend, someone to share what he’s going through with. It's for them that he's doing this. Some days it feels like it's for them that he's still alive, even though he only remembers two out of the four.

For them, Sam scours libraries and surfs the net until blinking hurts, uses Ash's helpful programming skills to track down the only other person his age still alive whose parent died burning on a ceiling. For them, Sam follows the rumors about a demon-killing gun through half the country even though he never actually finds it.

For them Sam reads and forgets meals and has to get glasses and then he reads some more.

*

"Alas, _ese_ , we meet aga--"

" _Te repites, Dean_."

"I... wha?"

"You used that one already."

"Screw you, I get points for trying."

"Maybe, but not for originality."

"So... you speak Spanish."

" _Sí_."

"Smug little... oh hey, did you get glasses?”

“Obviously.”

“Well congratulations, your total nerditude is officially obvious to the world."

"You do realize I'm dying, right?"

"No you're not. That Ava chick's gonna give you mouth to mouth in a minute."

"Really?"

"...No. It's Bobby."

"I hate you."

*

Sometimes he's the only hunter in the area or he stumbles into a glaringly obvious pattern during a lull in his demon research, and that's when he goes after other monsters. That is, until the werewolf hunt in San Francisco.

He should have known, really. But she'd been so kind and he was so alone.

After, Sam drinks so much he blacks out, but there's a blurred second right before he loses consciousness when he thinks he hears a far away yell of "-- _alcohol poisoning_?! Really? That's not a very dignified way to go, you idiot...!"

*

"Why is it always you?" Sam asks Dean. He hopes that in time it gets easier to call the creature by name, even in his head. A name is just a name, after all, and a word can’t be property of his long-dead brother. Just a couple of weeks ago he saw a cashier wearing 'Dean' on his nametag; it didn’t mean anything. "I mean, tons of us die every day so there's got to be thousands of you guys, right? Why do I always see you?"

"We get assigned to people. Company policy." Dean shrugs.

It's wrong but Sam can't think of Dean as an 'it' anymore, even if he's not human--probably not even technically alive.

"But how does the actual assignation process work?"

They have to wait for the prison EMT to bring him back, but for Sam this isn't about passing the time so much as an opportunity for some answers. He has hundreds upon hundreds of questions he wants to ask, and every time Death pays him a visit (even if Dean would probably argue it's the other way 'round) he thinks of a thousand more. Hell, he's even started writing them down, but then when the time comes to ask he gets sidetracked by their banter and Dean's smirk that is so at odds with his neatly pressed suit.

"It's about compatibility. Severing the link between body and spirit is a traumatizing thing, so the Reaper has to be able to get the soul to go with him or it will wander the Earth as a ghost..." Dean suddenly pitches his voice dramatically deep. "Restless, tormenting the living until a hunter the size of a house salts and burns its bones..."

Sam snorts. "And who decides which Reaper takes which soul?"

"My boss."

“So your boss sets the rules?”

“’Course. That’s why it's called the boss, right?”

“Is he Hades?”

“It has a lot of names through a lot of cultures, but calling Death a ‘he’ is pretty stupid, don’t you think?”

Right. Sam shuffles guiltily with the knowledge that Jess would have been disappointed in him just now.

“So… who are you wearing?”

“Huh?”

He's sitting on the floor in his bright orange prison uniform with a bruise around his throat that matches the one on his body (his body that is lying on one of the beds), and Dean has carefully situated himself a few paces away, clothes as form-fitting as ever. It hasn't escaped Sam's notice that they haven't touched yet, but it's on Sam's "To Ask Dean/Reaper(?)" list that he has saved on Google-docs.

“This meatsuit… it’s not yours, is it? I mean, do you even have a body? Is it some sort of projection or an actual person? 'Cause I initially thought projection but the attention to detail seems really impressive, so is a Hollywood star missing from his home right now or--?”

Dean splutters indignantly. "What? I'm not, I'm just-- _dude_!” he manages finally. “I’m not some… what? This isn't... this body is--" and then he stops, and all bluster gets replaced by a huge, childish grin. "Wait, you think I'm hot?"

Sam may be in spirit-form right now but he's pretty sure he still blushes. He's never really explored the side of himself that will quietly appreciate an attractive guy (and he's not counting that one time Jess and Becky dared him to kiss his roommate) but then again he'd never seen a guy as ridiculously beautiful as his Death's vessel before.

"Uh."

"You think I'm so hot I should be in Hollywood?"

"I--"

"Well hell Sammy, didn't think you'd swing that way.” The amount of sexual overtones Dean manages to layer into that sentence is horrifyingly impressive.

“I don’t." _Or at least I haven’t_.

“If you wanted the freaky undead action you could have just said; almost killing yourself repeatedly is really not the best way to get a guy's attention."

"Dean, seriously," Sam cuts in, a little desperately because out of the corner of his eye he can see his vitals are getting better. "What's your true form?"

The sleazy grin Dean shoots him matches his exaggerated drawl. "Sorry handsome, but this is only our sixth date and I'm afraid I'm not ready for that level of commitment."

"But why are you--"

Too late.

*

"Seriously, do you like me or something?"

Sam startles. "What are you doing here?"

Dean rolls his eyes and points to himself. "Reaper." He points to Sam. "Overgrown hunter with suicidal revenge issues, a 'big damn hero' complex and delusions of a medical degree. You do the math."

"No way. I only got knocked out this time," Sam protests, because yeah, he's almost completely sure that's true. Plus, this feels more like a dream than an out-of-body experience; their surroundings are blank and nondescript, an anonymous motel room like the million others Sam's spent his nights in. "What, you appear for people with concussions now, too?"

Dean's smile falters and then finally drops, and he makes this whiny, pouty face that looks absolutely _hilarious_. "Fine, I was bored. Sue me."

 _Like I'd spend my downtime stalking blundering hunters taller than Bigfoot_...

A little thrill goes through Sam at the memory and he has to put serious effort into not smiling like a loon. He’s pretty sure his glasses are broken (again) but he doesn’t care; Dean has a crazy effect on him, in that he actually _makes Sam crazy_.

"So how come I can see you now, but not when I'm awake?" he manages.

"It's a state of consciousness thing."

Sam's surprised by the honest and informative answer for once, but he tries not to let it show in case there's more coming.

Turns out there is; "Most Reapers are only visible to the dead or near-dying, but I'm not that exclusive. With me, the closer to death you are, the easier it is for me to become visible, but I'm not as limited as my coworkers. So if you were comatose as in, y'know, deeply unconscious, the effort would be minimal. If you're only knocked out it's harder, but manageable. Sleep would be the next best thing after that, although I'd put blackout drunk at about the same level, I think. "

"What about now? Does it take a lot of power to appear to me now?"

"I _am_ pretty powerful, you know," Dean says, smugly. Then he adds, with an unexpected, self-conscious softness that completely throws Sam for a loop: "But I have a pretty strong link to you 'cause of all your fucked up near-misses, so that helps. We're kind of... connected now."

"Oh."

They are both silent for a long moment. It's pretty awkward.

Suddenly Dean's image winks out of existence for a second, flickering like bad reception.

"Dean?" Sam says immediately, sitting up.

He's back a second later, but he ducks his head and doesn't meet Sam's eyes.

"Think you're gonna wake up soon," he grunts, brushing invisible dust off his suit jacket. "Good seeing you without any severe hemorrhage going on, Sammy. Nice change."

He's gone before Sam can stutter out: "Y-you too."

*

The next time, Sam sees Dean in his dreams.

"I have some time to kill before it's time for me to kill someone," Dean says without preamble, startling the living hell out of Sam. "Entertain me, Bigfoot hunter."

They are in Bobby's safe room even though Sam's really asleep in his stolen car of the month, parked in an empty lot somewhere in rural Montana. For a few weeks now he's been having recurring nightmares about being tied to the bed he glimpsed during his visit at Bobby’s place: he dreams of yelling himself hoarse begging to be told what he's done wrong so he can fix it, but nobody ever comes--either to comfort or to assign blame.

He's decided that they aren't visions, just fucked up manifestations of his subconscious like usual. He's... eighty percent sure.

"You know that sounds like I'm some random guy who's hunting Bigfoot, right?" he says, forcing his tone to sound off-hand even though he feels uncomfortably vulnerable, restrained as he is with Dean looming over him. This is his dream, and Dean is in it. In his head.

"Aren't you?"

"Funny." He tugs against the leather straps but his arms are still pinned above his head. It's not... not good. "Uh, Dean..." he starts, before thinking better of it.

But Dean has clearly caught on, and he doesn’t even go for the obvious kinky sex joke. "Oh, hey, I can leave if this is a bad—“

“I’m fine,” Sam lies. “Stay. I’ve actually been meaning to ask you...” he gropes around in his head for a question, something inane, anything—“Is the whole scythe thing a myth?”

They both know he just pulled that out of his ass, but Dean smiles gently and lets it pass. “More of a metaphor. Although how cool would it be if I got to carry one around?”

Sam manages a smile back. “Very. What about weighing souls and feathers?”

“Souls don’t weigh anything. There’s a slightly less figurative process involved, however, that results in your ascent or descent.” The Reaper crouches down so their heads are level and he’s not towering over Sam, and Sam appreciates the gesture more than he can express. “That section is above my pay grade, though. You should just think of me as the exceptionally good-looking usher.”

“So… heaven and hell? Purgatory? It all exists?”

Dean makes an ‘error’ buzzer noise. “I’m sorry, that question was outside the strictly Death-related mythology. Please try again.”

Sam huffs a small laugh. “Okay, okay. The three-headed dog?”

“Cerberus? Man, I love that thing, but the middle head is a little too friendly with my crotch, if you know what I mean.”

They shoot the shit, talking and bantering about myths and legends ( _of course we celebrate Santa Muerte_!), reincarnation and soulmates ( _yes they exist, you want some fries with that cheese, Francis_?) until Dean starts to flicker again.

Sam wakes up well-rested, and feeling better than he has in ages.

*

"Okay, this is getting ridiculous."

"I didn't do it on purpose!"

"Are you sure? 'Cause I wasn't kidding, there _are_ better ways to get my attention, Sammy."

"Stop calling me that."

"Stop dying."

"For the last time, I'm not technically dea--"

"He's alive!"

*

_There’s a wonderful world where colors are brighter and the sun never quite seems to set. In it, Sam's parents are alive and beautifully happy, and they bicker cheerfully over family breakfast while Sam gapes at them and tries not to tear up._

_He and Jess work together at an environmental law firm like they always said they wanted, but after she throws her arms around him for a tight hug she starts telling him about her and Zack's weekend plans. Sam doesn’t understand; follows her around like a confused puppy and thinks ‘_ but you loved me. I didn’t get it, but you loved _me_ in the other world _’. Still, he’s not selfish; seeing her alive and glowing with joy makes him so painfully happy it takes a while just to be able to catch his breath._

_And then he finds out why there is no death here._

_He finds his house and Dean is waiting to greet him, and Dean is human, and Dean grins and tosses Sam’s briefcase to the floor before grabbing the hair on the nape of his neck and giving him the filthiest welcome-home kiss Sam’s ever had._

_They can touch in this world. They are in love, in this world. Sam finds a wedding ring in his sock drawer, and he realizes that he was going to propose to the only person who can make him smile back in his horrible real life. Messed up as it is, he does get that Dean’s the only thing he looks forward to anymore; the only light in an otherwise dank and depressing tunnel. And god, but they work so well, and it's so easy and so_ good _, and he doesn't want to leave, he just wants..._

Bobby saves him in the end, and confuses the hell out of him by _crying_ and then tearing Sam a new one for going after the genie alone.

The imaginary towels in the imaginary bathroom of his imaginary house had two Ws embroidered in the corner, but Sam doesn’t think about that. He doesn’t think about it so damn hard, in fact, that he manages to delude himself into forgetting all about it.

*

And then, two years after losing Jessica—minus a few minutes since he met his personal angel of Death, a year after he nearly bled out on Jo's backseat and learned Dean's painfully coincidental name, eight months since he met and lost Ava, ninety-five days since he shot Madison through the heart, six weeks after escaping the Green River County Detention Center and a fortnight after waking up from the best worst dream of his life...

The shit _really_ hits the fan.


	3. Et post

 

Sam Winchester dies anticipatorily, thinking about what comes next.

*

Turns out Sam’s been walking around with demon blood in him this whole time, and the demon he’s been hunting oh so desperately has sickly bright yellow eyes… and a name. Azazel.

Azazel has a plan, and it’s a monumentally stupid plan because he wants Sam to work for him. The son-of-a-bitch killed Sam’s family and the woman he loved and he wants Sam’s _collaboration_. Clearly he didn’t think his grand offer through because all he has to threaten Sam with is Sam’s own life, which only proves what a terrible plan it is. Ava killed the others for her fiancé and Jake has a mother and a sister; Sam has nothing but his worthless half-dead soul and a handful of hunters who might feel vaguely sad about his death for a couple of weeks.

So in the end, he lets it happen.

He could pretend otherwise, claim he hadn’t expected the knife when he turned, but he’d caught a metallic glint in the moonlight (it was hidden inside Jake’s sleeve). Hell, he practically has time to brace himself.

Jake’s unnatural strength drives it in so deep that the hilt makes a horrifying crunching sound as it breaks Sam’s vertebrae. The pain slices up his back all the way to the base of his neck and then it feels suspiciously like his head _explodes_. Sam's knees fold like wet paper and he drops to the muddy earth, but he barely feels the impact.

“ _No_!”

Sam blinks, everything gone hazy all of a sudden, and a second later Dean is right in front of him like he's been there this whole time.

“D-D—“ but his mouth floods with blood and even moving his lips seems like excess effort.

Dean gasps and shouts “No!” again and “Oh god, no, _no_ ” but even as Sam’s vision is darkening and getting eaten away at the corners, his Death’s silhouette keeps getting brighter and sharper, almost as if Dean is the one sucking the light out of the world and into himself.

" _Sam_ \--"

The pain stops.

It's sudden, not gradual at all, and Sam feels fine. He barely feels anything. He's--he's standing up shakily, but the shakiness is more out of habit than because his legs actually feel weak. He's in spirit form again; his body stays face-down in the mud, scarlet stain spreading around what little of the hilt is left protruding from his back.

Dean is crouched in front of it but of course Sam has passed right through him, and this isn’t drowning or losing blood or being hit very hard in the head. This is it. He really is dead this time.

"No. _No_ ," Dean is saying, hands ghosting through Sam's limp form. He looks like he's trying to pull him up, prop him upright. "Sam, no, you’ve gotta be okay, fuck, you can’t--"

"Dean?"

Sam's voice comes out a bit more strangled than he’d intended. He's not even real, not even in a body with flesh or a larynx, but his throat feels somehow choked. He’s _dead_. Azazel won. Sam’s dead and useless and no one will pay for what happened to Mary and his father and Jess and his brother.

And he mostly sat back and let it happen.

Again.

Back in the living plane, Sam can see Jake hyperventilating and stumbling away from the corpse, but he’s too busy with the realization of what he's just done to put effort into caring.

"Dean?"

“No, Sammy, c’mon, it's not even that bad, you have to get up now—“

“Dean, what...?”

Dean rounds on him, tie askew, suit creased and rumpled for the first time since they met.

“Shut up!” he snarls furiously. He’s pale and his eyes are gleaming—wait, is that...? “You need to go back and kill that other kid and _not die_ , okay?”

Yes. Yes it is. Holy shit. All thoughts of regret and anger in Sam’s head are replaced by utter shock.

"B-what?" he blurts. "But I’m de—“

“No, you’re _not_. You can’t be dead. Can’t be.”

Sam has no idea what the hell is going on. Dean doesn't even seem to be aware that he's...

"Dean..."

“I said get back in there!” Dean roars. “Come on!”

“How? I-I d-don't... what am I s-supposed to...?" Dean still looks so angry and Sam doesn't know what to _do_ , he can't even obey Blue Oyster Cult.

“ _Live_!" Dean thunders, and this time his voice resonates in a way that is definitely not human.

Sam steps back and Dean steps forward, air crackling around them. He looks formidable and, for the first time, threatening.

"You're supposed to fucking live, Sam! You're--"

He cuts off abruptly, looking mildly stunned.

Ah. So he's finally noticed.

Sam watches the Reaper's large hand come up to his own face and swipe a palm over his cheek. It comes away wet.

Dean stares incredulously at his shiny fingers for a very long, very tense, moment.

"What the fuck.” The thundering echo is gone from his voice.

"I... don't--"

"M'not asking... what the _fuck_?"

He glares at his own hand and the sight is really very incongruous because _he's still crying_.

“What is happening to me?” he snaps. "What did you...?"

And under the shaky anger is very badly disguised uncertainty. Dean is scared, and maybe more human than ever, even as the tears keep flowing, strangely incongruent with his expression.

"Dean?"

Sam feels so lost. He looks down at his body and up at his Death again and he has so many questions his mind is blanking out on him. He thought... his Reaper was supposed to have all the answers, when it was time. And it is, this is the time, but all Dean has done so far is say "no" and cry.

"I don't know what's happening to me," Dean bites out finally.

Sam gives a short, helpless laugh. "I don't either, if it makes you feel better."

"I'm serious."

"Believe me, so am I."

"You don't understand--I didn't even think this could happen." He wipes at his face again and grunts angrily. "Fuck. I've never... this has never happened to me before."

Sam forces a weak smile on his face. "I'm flattered."

"God, shut up."

Dean keeps staring at the tears gleaming on his fingers as though he'll find some answers there.

"Dean, what... what happens now?" Sam has to ask. "To me, I mean. I know I'm not coming back from this."

It's exactly the wrong question. Or maybe the right one.

Dean looks up at him and their eyes lock. He doesn't answer for a very long time, but there's something otherworldly about the way he stares at Sam, something special Sam's never seen before. Not obviously supernatural the way it was before when he got angry, but the green of his irises is brighter than the glisten of tears could account for, and the look on his face...

Sam waits.

"I don't think I can do it," Dean says finally, voice chain-smoker rough. He sounds defeated, half as though he can't believe the words coming out of his mouth.

"Do what?"

"You're... they didn't tell me. Not until just now, they didn’t... I didn’t know this was the definite one. I got used to you just going back. Freaking counted on it."

"...Dean, I don't understand."

Dean seems to come to a decision. He squares his shoulders and glares at Sam, fierce and stubborn. “I can't,” he snaps.

It's all he says.

"You can't what?"

"I can't do it, okay? I don't know what the fuck _this_ is about--" he rubs angrily at the tears that haven’t stopped trickling down his cheeks, and he looks determined. "--but I can't do it."

"You can't do _what,_ Dean?"

"I can't kill you."

Sam stares.

"You... what?"

“I. Can’t. Kill. You,” Dean snarls, and starts walking towards him.

Sam holds his ground, opens his mouth to ask what that means but then something incredible happens.

Dean's strides eat up the space between them in seconds and suddenly he’s close, closer than he’s ever been; right up in Sam’s personal space as though he belongs there. And Sam can't speak because Dean is inches away, Dean is reaching out toward him, Dean is grabbing Sam's face in two body-warm hands.

 _We’re touching_ , Sam thinks dumbly. _He’s touching me. We could have been touching this whole time_.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispers aggressively.

And then he kisses Sam.

Heat and electricity shoot through him, but not the pleasant, tingly variety that is supposed to come with any good kiss--this _hurts_ , tears through his insides and makes his skin fizz and boil, like a match is being held to his nerve endings (and everyone should just trust Sam on that comparison). The juxtaposition of painful electric overstimulation and warm wet tongue shyly licking at his lips is mind-blowing, and a deep groan breaks from his throat when he opens his mouth to Dean’s. Sam himself isn’t sure whether the noise is of pain or pleasure.

Too soon, however, he starts to lose his proprioception and all conscious awareness of being in a Sam-shaped form. He's engulfed in heat and light, and he doesn’t get the chance to do more than hold on to the torrent of energy his surroundings have become before all sense of flesh is gone, and Sam becomes a disperse, disembodied thing.

The next thing he's aware of is an agonizing flare in the middle of his back and a suffocating lack of oxygen; the desperate need to breathe deep.

And suddenly he's gulping in air. Alive. Impossibly, _alive_.

Oh holy _shit_.

Sam scrambles to right himself, face caked in dirt and hair clinging to his skull with the rain he'd never noticed. He utters an uncomprehending whimper that sounds pitiful even to his own ears, but it takes him a few moments of blinking away water to realize that the reason he can’t see is because of his muddy glasses.

He takes them off and wipes the lenses with clumsy fingers before shoving them back on his nose. He's sitting right where Jake left him, where Dean tried to lift him ineffectually. Dean.

"Dean?"

"Here."

Sam twists and finds the Reaper standing in the exact same spot he'd been when he'd... Jesus, _kissed_ Sam. And now... Dean looks worn out, almost ill—or at least, less than scrupulously put together. There are bags under his eyes and his cheekbones poke out from under his skin more sharply than usual, as though he’s lost an improbable amount of weight in the past few seconds.

Their gazes lock and they spend a long frozen moment just looking at each other--Sam breathless and wide-eyed and so stunned he has a hard time thinking up a coherent sentence, let alone voicing an actual question. In contrast, Dean is a mixture of grave, defiant and uncannily dry in the rain.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says finally.

Sam doesn’t understand. He gropes behind himself to try and touch the point where he felt the blade go in--he felt it _rip_ into him, Jesus, but beyond the mangled mess that is the scars on his back there's nothing there. There’s no pain beyond the usual pull of fibrotic skin, no knife-wound at all.

"W-what?" he manages to choke out. "What the hell just happened? Am I...?"

"Alive. Yeah."

Sam gets up, extends an arm towards Dean automatically seeking some semblance of comfort, something to anchor him--but Dean steps away to avoid the contact.

He doesn't take his eyes off Sam's body though, gaze assessing every twitch and shiver. "You feel okay?" he asks.

"I'm... I think so. Dean. What did you do?"

_He kissed you, Sam. You were there for that part._

Dean shakes his head, face set. "I'm sorry Sam, but we don't have time for exposition." He straightens his tie and there’s no trace of those bizarre tears on his face. "We need to get the hell outta here and we need to do it now, okay?"

"What? But--"

"What I just did, it's gonna attract attention. We can talk later, I promise."

Dean has become a lot of things to him over the past couple of years but easily trusting is something Sam Winchester _isn’t_.

"How about we talk now?"

It comes out less commanding than he'd hoped but Dean barely seems to register the words, looking around them as though someone is seconds away from leaping out of one of the abandoned houses.

"Sam, listen to me; I’ve just broken every rule in the Reaper manual.” There's no regret whatsoever in his voice, though. “And crap like this? There's no sweeping it under the radar. It creates a ripple effect, and there are other things out there, things worse than Reapers that are making their way to us as we speak. There’s also my _boss_ , which ain't exactly an entity you want on your ass, okay? We need to get you someplace safe and it needs to happen--"

" _What do you think you're doing_?"

Sam spins around, heart leaping, just in time to see a beautiful woman finish materializing behind him. She's in tight jeans and a flattering black T-shirt, not a speck of dust on her, but even without the suit she reminds Sam of Dean in some vague way. Another deadly minion? She's not like a normal Reaper either.

"What the _hell_ , Dean?" she says. "Have you completely lost your mind?"

"Stay out of this, Tessa," Dean says warningly.

"Stay out of...? I was off duty just now! I got called in the second you brought him back! Do you have any idea what you've done?" She walks by Sam as though he's a prop and gets up in Dean's face. "What is it with you and Sam Winchester?"

"We don't have time for this--"

"Oh yes we do, we have time for you to try to fix it," she interrupts firmly. "This isn’t just about you, Dean, you know it isn't. The consequences--"

“It’s too late now.”

“It’s not. Reap him and we might be able to avoid—“

“ _No_.”

“I was sent here by the Boss itself, we can still—“

She cuts herself off and at first Sam doesn't understand why... until he realizes the earth is shaking, rumbling vibrations travelling up his legs and all through him.

Oh come on. All this and an _earthquake_?

"Is that an..." the woman starts, tone doing a full one-eighty shift. She seems both scared and confused, and it's scaring Sam by proxy.

"Gotta be. I think my boy’s just been voted Prom Queen,” Dean says with a hard grin. He sounds deeply menacing in a way he'd never done before—at least, not until he’d demanded Sam to come back to life. “I told you, we need to get out of here. Now."

"Why do I get the feeling 'we' includes the human?"

And that's when Dean moves around her to stand in front of the human in question, body set in a protective stance. Sam is still taller than him but that doesn’t seem to matter; Dean looks like he’s in his element now more than ever. He looks dangerous.

"It does include the human. It excludes the extra Reaper, actually." He crosses his arms over his chest. "Oh, and it's not me, it's you, sweetheart."

Tessa seems to get a hold of her anger again rather quickly. " _What_? You can't just take him with you."

"Watch me."

The earthquake hasn't stopped while they argue. If anything, it's getting worse.

Sam's ears are ringing, and the nighttime colors seem to have condensed, become subtly brighter. Okay, definitely not a natural phenomenon then; this must be one of Dean's _'other things out there, things worse than Reapers_ '. Even if the woman is a Reaper too, she's definitely not on Dean's side right now. Why are they both afraid of what's coming? What could possibly frighten two messengers of Death?

"You won't be able to protect him, Dean," Tessa is saying, voice raised to carry over the noise.

"We’ll see about that. You stay away from him, y'hear?"

"I'm trying to _help_ you."

“I never asked for your help!”

The ringing grows louder and more strident. Sam looks up at the sky that was midnight-black a minute ago.

"Dean, listen to me--"

"No, you listen to _me_ , Tess--I want you to zap yourself outta here and I want you tell the others..." It's gotten so bad Sam has to cover his ears, but he can still hear Dean's words clearly enough. "... You tell them Sam Winchester is _mine_."

The sound suddenly climbs to a sharp whine, and the woman swears colorfully and vanishes. Sam feels as though his head is going to burst, every bone in his body rattling like something thin and tender and delicate.

"Sam! Sam, hey, look at me!"

Sam does, squinting against the bright light coming from nowhere and everywhere in the middle of the night. Dean is crouched in front of him, holding up his palm.

"I want you to take the knife and draw a symbol on your hand!" Dean yells. When Sam is too slow to react he shouts again: "Take the knife, Sam! Now!"

Sam stumbles half-blind to the floor and feels around until his fingers close over the blade, then the hilt. There's blood on it ( _his_ blood, Jesus).

"Look at me!" Dean yells, and traces a half-moon on his palm. “Quick!”

Sam’s vision is blurred and his eyes sting with the weird brightness but he does as he’s told, stabbing the hard metal into his flesh without a second’s hesitation. The pain is sharp and instantaneous but he keeps going, cutting the way Dean points: an incomplete circle, an arrow going through it, what he’s pretty sure is a Hindu symbol used in banishing spells, a small star on the tip of his thumb that bleeds so bad it becomes more of a disfigured blotch. But Dean nods encouragingly and the ringing noise seems to dull, almost starting to fade, even.

“Is it working?” Sam shouts.

“Let’s not stick around and find out!” Dean counters. “You gotta run, Sam, okay? There’s a car less than a mile down the road, I’ll wait for you there. Run as fast as those gigantor legs of yours will take you.”

“But—“

“Go! Now!”

Sam breaks into a sprint and hopes against hope that he can keep it up until he gets to this car: every muscle in his body feels sore, his back will start to cramp soon, and the bloody palm of his left hand stings like fire.

The noise is definitely fading though, as is the light.

*

The car is exactly where Dean said it would be; parked innocuously on the side of the road, sleek and black in the night. It's an old model, classic, and not what Sam would have wished for as a getaway vehicle. It will have to do, though.

Sam’s only just managed to fold himself into the driver’s seat and collapse in a panting heap when his Reaper appears beside him.

“ _Jesus_ —“

“Start the car!” Dean shouts, and Sam is relieved to find the keys are already in the ignition.

They peel off down the narrow dirt road that leads away from Cold Oak.

“Okay,” Sam pants. “Okay, now will you tell me what the hell is going on? Whose car is this? What was that thing? Who was that woman? I thought you said you weren’t like the other Reapers, but she wasn’t either, she was just like you. Did you just break the natural order or…?”

Dean isn’t looking at him when Sam sneaks a glance, and he doesn’t seem about to answer either—his face is a hard, resolute mask. Sam is exhausted past the point of wanting sleep, he’s sweaty and muddy and confused and he doesn’t know what’s happening except that oh yeah, he _died_ a few minutes ago, and if there is one thing Sam truly hates it’s not knowing things.

So he does something… ill advised.

He reaches out to touch Dean.

There’s no real point of contact; the touch passes through, but it feels like he just jammed his hand into an electric socket. He yells, the car swerves and skids, Dean swears and everything sparks at the edges. Intense heat travels lightning-fast from Sam’s hand all through his body, fluid and painfully acute. It hurts in a way not entirely unlike the kiss Dean gave him before, but it’s violent in a good way, too, because there’s something crazily intimate about this beyond the fact that he is literally wrist-deep in Dean—

Sam jerks the limb back, his whole body tingling with aftershocks. He barely registers Dean yelling in the background:

“...the fuck is _wrong_ with you, Winchester? You can’t just fucking poke at everything you don’t understand! What mad scientist lab did you escape from anyway, _Jesus_!”

“I-I…”

“Focus on the goddamn road and fucking drive!” Dean snarls. Sam readjusts his grip on the steering wheel and winces when he notices that he’s singed his right hand: the skin up to his wrist turned an angry red. Well. If he keeps this up there won’t be much left of him that isn’t ugly and scarred.

It’s not until he shifts in his seat that Sam realizes, with a kind of numb horror, that he’s also half-hard in his wet muddy jeans.

“If you’re so goddamn desperate for answers then fine, but _I_ ’ll do the talking. No more stupid outta you, y’hear me?” Dean sounds a little hoarse and out of breath, too, and Sam has to wonder whether it felt as weird for the Reaper as it did for him. “And no more fucking touching.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Damn right you are.”

They are both quiet for almost a minute—during which Sam thinks he’s going to burst open with the force of all the questions he wants to ask.

“Christ, okay. First things first; back there? That was Tessa. She’s a Reaper, but she's different. She's like me, and we’re... not like the others.”

“What does that me—“ Sam can practically feel Dean’s glare, and the question dies. He makes a zipping motion over his mouth and floors the gas as their narrow way turns to paved road.

“Details later, Sasquatch. What we need to worry about now is the thing that came after Tessa.”

Sam nods, trying to project eager but respectful attentiveness.

“I can’t be sure, but out of all the supernatural crap I’ve met in my lifetime there’s only one thing that announces its presence with all that ground-shaking, eardrum-busting crap. And that would be an archangel.”

An… archangel.

Sam is too stunned to utter a sound, but he can’t help turning to stare at Dean, to try and glean some sort of knowledge from his expression. Sadly, Dean just looks pensive and serious (and, to be quite honest, still a little pissed off). That is, until he catches sight of Sam's open-mouthed shock.

“Yes you heard right; angels exist, but we can get into lore later. I guess your next question would be why was an archangel about to pay us a visit?”

Sam is pretty much still stuck on _archangel_ , but that does sound like a good question.

“What I did, it’s not exactly…” Dean falters a bit. “Uh, I really wasn’t supposed to do it. I don’t even know why I did it, to be honest, but I just… couldn’t... not.”

He goes quiet and of all the things Sam could want to ask then (freaking _archangel_ ) all he can suddenly think is: _Am I the first person you got to know before you had to Reap them? Is that all it was?_

“So, hum,” Dean clears his throat noisily and really, he’s not even human, how is that supposed to be believable? “It will have drawn attention from a few higher-ups, which I already figured… but I can’t say I expected the angels to get involved so fast. And archangels are kind of a big deal, even for a matter of tracking down an unprocessed soul.”

“It doesn’t happen often, does it?” Sam asks carefully. Angels. Archangels. What even is his life.

“A soul not being harvested? No. Never. It’s not supposed to happen.” He pauses, and his mouth purses in consideration. “It’s still our turf, though. A fuck-up on Deathly affairs is Death’s to fix, no matter how epic. I really don’t get why that archangel was paying us a visit unless you being Azazel's special friend has something to do with it.”

When it starts to look like Dean is lost in his musings, Sam decides to risk more questions. “... So am I a zombie or what?”

Dean snorts. “You’re alive, man. You never died. Er. Technically. That is, you died, but you were never Reaped, which sort of invalidates the process." There's a pause. "…I think.”

“Wow. You’re a certified expert at this, aren’t you.”

“I’ve been learning to Reap since I was a kid,” Dean protests. “It’s just… we’re not even supposed to consider this an option. We’re not even supposed to know it’s possible.”

 _But you did_ , Sam thinks. _Why? And what the hell was with the crying_? A smaller, much shallower voice in the back of his mind is whispering: _That was one hell of a kiss of life, by the way._

“What now, Dean?” he says instead.

He means the question in the grand sense of: “Is the universe going to implode or not?” but Dean stuns him yet again by saying, after only a moment’s hesitation:

“Now we go find my body.”

“Your… _what_?”

Dean takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Yeah, when I said I wasn’t like other Reapers...? This is pretty much the main distinction.”

“You have a body? What does that even _mean_?”

“Look,” Dean points at him. “You are made up of mind, body and soul. The big three.” He points to himself. “Right now I’m in spirit form, which means mind and soul only, no body required. Two can exist without the other, but it takes a lot of power to separate them. Dying is the most common way...”

“But you’re not dead. You just said you have a body.”

“Yeah, well, when people kick it their spirit separates from their body _permanently_. Some beings have the ability to control that separation and then come back without the whole... y’know, inconvenient dying part. That's the reason I'm not like other Reapers; in a lot of ways they're closer to ghosts, while I'm still anchored in the real world.”

Sam shoots Dean a pointed glance. “How are you doing it, then?”

Dean smirks, but it sits tiredly on his worn face. “I’m just really awesome.”

“Dean, seriously.”

“Sam, seriously; story time’s over. Take the next exit.”

It only occurs to Sam then that he has no idea where they are going. He voices the thought and Dean rolls his eyes again.

“Michigan.”

“ _Michigan_?"

"Yes, Michigan, are you just gonna repeat everything I say in a slightly higher tone from now on?"

"No," Sam says, trying to pitch his voice lower without it being too obvious. "But that’s a two-day drive, Dean, without stopping to sleep. And this thing only has half a gas tank left.”

“That’s where my body is.” Dean shrugs. "We can stop for gas if we need to."

Sam knows he's really pushing it with the questions now, but he can't help himself. If Dean refuses to answer, well, that's not his problem.

“Why don’t you just zap us there?”

Dean lets out a protesting groan. “Have you not been listening?" He turns in his seat to face Sam fully, and the move itself is weird--probably because there's no real weight on those cushions. Right. "I’m in _spirit_ form, Sammy. Meaning I operate on the spirit plane. I can’t do jack squat to your corporeal ass until I have a body too.”

There’s a briefly awkward moment during which they both know what the other is thinking and nobody reacts in any visible way. Then Dean adopts his usual leer and Sam rolls his eyes and tips his head forward to hide a blush under his glasses and fringe.

Dean snickers. “Moving on...”

“You could still zap yourself there and meet me halfway.” It would save them time and Sam is honestly confused as to why Dean wouldn't just suggest that in the first place.

“And trust you to keep your bacon alive for two days? After all the trouble I just went to? No chance.”

And he turns back and crosses his arms over his chest, clearly indicating the conversation is now over.

Sam doesn't care. That comment was Dean's way of saying he won't leave, and Sam may not know what Dean wants from him yet, may still feel clueless as to why the hell Dean saved his life, but there is one thing he can't deny himself anymore: Dean plans on sticking around, and that's very much what Sam wants.

They've become something over time. Maybe 'friends' is the wrong word, but it shouldn't be, right? They got along much better than they should have given the nature of their meet-ups, they created a rapport, and Sam is man enough to admit he missed Dean when he was conscious. Now that he doesn't even have to be near Death to talk to him, however...

“Dean?"

"What is it now?"

"If you're on the spirit plane and I'm not, how can I see you? I’m not comatose or unconscious. Or drunk.”

Dean winces. “Oh. Uh... I think what happened back there--you probably don’t remember this, but a while ago I mentioned how we’re sort of connected thanks to your frequent-flyer miles.” Sam does, and he treasured that memory for an embarrassingly long time, but whatever. “What I did is kind of like that, times a million. I think we’re... I think I’m bound to you. Jury’s up as to whether everyone else will be able to see me in this form, but I’m thinking probably not. I’m for your eyes only until we get my body.”

Given everything that’s going on and everything there is yet to understand, Sam figures he shouldn’t like that idea so much. He has to ask, though: “So... when I touched you just now.”

“We just agreed on your body and my spirit not being supposed to exist on the same earthly plane, man,” Dean says. “Who the hell knows.”

A few minutes pass in silence.

Sam is thinking. He's putting puzzle pieces together and the bigger picture looks like a fractured mosaic with more blank spaces than actual answers, but there's one more thing. Just one more.

“Dean...?” Sam says softly. He tells himself this is the last question for a good long time. “Are you human?”

An indecipherable look ghosts over Dean’s features (if those are his real features, anyway; Sam will find out soon enough). He doesn't take long to reply, though.

“No."

"...Oh."

"Neither is Tessa, although she has a body too. Far as I know there's just a handful of Reapers with that condition, and I've never met any of the others stationed internationally. We are alive, though.” He gives a small, bitter chuckle. “For a certain value of alive, anyway.”

His tone is final.

And that's when Sam realizes his mistake. It was all in the phrasing, because what he should have asked is a much more important variation of the same idea.

**_Were_ ** _you human?_

*

About an hour goes by before the sky begins to lighten, and Sam's adrenalin rush has officially worn off. Still, even if he has to admit that he’s pretty exhausted, keeping himself awake has proven easy given everything he has to think about—and all the recent events he has to try to digest. There's the truth about his mother’s and his brother’s deaths (his fault all his fault), the looming threat of Azazel's demon army with Jake at the lead, the whole "dying and being brought back" thing, Dean kissing him (...how he kind of wishes he’d get a chance to try that again and see how he feels about it), the fact that an _archangel_ is after him, the fact that he's on Death's Most Wanted list, Dean having a body because he's alive _—_

It's a lot like trying to digest a rock: painful and futile.

Sam blinks, eyes stinging a little from the brightness of the horizon, and then he catches sight of the car dash.

"Dean?"

"Yeah."

"Dawn should be in about three to four hours."

Dean swears. “Fucking archangels. Fuck. We need to redo the sigil."

"How?"

"Pull over."

Sam was already in the process. "How much time do we have?"

"I don't know. Let's just assume ‘not a whole lot’ and go from there."

Dean leaps through the passenger door and circles around to stand in front of the hood of the car.

"It’s too late to get the proper charms or put together some hex bags, but I know a supernatural ward that should work well enough until we can do that. We don't want my coworkers coming after us, either.”

“Angels, demons and Reapers; one-size fits all?” Sam says, walking over to join him.

Dean grins approvingly. “That’s the general idea, yes, but this sigil will still be temporary. Archangels are just the fastest, Sammy; there's a whole lotta ugly coming after both of us now and your freshly-revived soul must have been leaving a pretty, pretty trail for them."

Dean motions for him to sit on the cold metal hood, and he stands in front of Sam (still at a cautious distance, but at least in this position they are level in height).

“I didn’t know."

“Yeah, s’my fault. I forgot about the residual energy vibes.” Dean grimaces apologetically. “Good thing that that will be hiding the strongest signals.” He points to Sam's palm.

"So you’re saying they may not know exactly where we are."

"That’s exactly what I’m hoping. You ready, Sammy?"

Sam clenches his singed red hand around the knife. "Just tell me what to do."

*

"I said left!”

“This _is_ left.”

“No it’s n—shit, okay, my left, your _right_ —“

“Dean, this isn’t going to work.”

Sam’s shirt sleeve is rolled up over his bicep and he is attempting to carve an intricate supernatural ward by following Dean’s confusing instructions and using his imagination.

It's not going well.

“That line should be thicker,” Dean adds.

“The middle one or the squiggly one?”

“The squiggly one should be straighter, and the side dot is too close to the edge of the pentagram.”

“...Shit.” He’s goinig to have to re-do it. “Look, will it still work if I draw it on my stomach? I think my arm isn’t—“

“No!” Dean looks outraged. “We can fix it. You don’t have to... let’s keep the body mutilation to a minimum, c’mon.”

“Dean.” Sam stretches out his arm and the gesture alone makes fresh blood well up and drip down to his elbow. It’s a mess with barely any room for correction.

“No. I... shit.” The faint whining noise isn’t so faint anymore, and the light has gotten progressively more intense. The archangel must be closing in.

Dean still looks like the sight of Sam’s mangled flesh is making him nauseous. “I don’t want you to re-do it, Sammy.”

Sam blows out a tired breath. “Look, your protective side is cute and all—“ Dean snorts, loudly. “—but I really can’t see another way. And I don’t think we have much time.”

“But...” Suddenly Dean’s face changes. “Wait. Show me your hand.”

Sam holds up his still-bloody hand and Dean shakes his head. “Other hand.”

The blistered limb that went inside of Dean still smarts a little as Sam extends his fingers, but since Jess his pain threshold has been altered significantly and he barely registers it as discomfort.

“Okay.” Dean looks a strange mixture of apprehensive and resolute. “Okay, let’s try something. Hold still.”

Sam just nods, because he’s pretty sure he’s caught on to what’s coming.

Dean steps close and extends a finger, slowly reaching out to lay it on Sam’s forearm.

The shock is instant and just as powerful as last time. Sam can’t help a sharp inhale as Dean pulls away fast—too fast, God, there was no time for the crazy sensation to build and he’s both relieved and frustrated.

“Jesus,” Dean huffs. Sam looks down at his arm and sees a clear red mark where Dean touched him; it’s shaped exactly like the pad of his finger.

“...Huh.”

“It worked.”

“Yeah.”

They look at each other. “We really don’t have much time, Sam.”

“Yeah. Yeah, go ahead.” He doesn't want Dean to see the scars on his back (no one should have to be subjected to that disgusting spectacle) but the Reaper won't have to if Sam angles himself right and doesn't turn.

He takes off his jacket and lifts up his shirt, causing Dean to let out a shaky laugh.

“Geez, how many years did the crossroads demon promise you for those abs, kid?”

Sam frowns. “What’s a crossroads—“

“Forget it.” Dean inches forward even closer. “At least now I know you won’t butcher the sigil.”

“You gave crap instructions.”

“Shut up, I was...”

But Sam doesn’t hear the rest of that sentence. Couldn’t even tell you if Dean kept talking.

Every cell in his body is screaming, but whether in pain or pleasure or both Sam can’t tell. What makes it somehow bearable is that, while the agony is definitely there, the throbbing pulse of... of life-force, spirit, whatever it is that Dean is made up of right now—fills him up as well. The tip of Dean’s finger and the skin of Sam’s chest are occupying the same cosmic space and instead of fighting each other for it this feels like some sort of merger, a communication.

Dean keeps blinking laboriously and worrying his lower lip as he works, and at some point Sam closes his eyes because Dean catches him staring. He’s still panting harshly but can’t seem to stop, every breath louder than the last so as to be close to something very embarrassing by the end of it.

At least he manages to choke down the groan of frustration that wants to climb out of his throat when Dean finally pulls back.

“Christ,” Dean hisses, and sucks on his finger as though he’s hurting too. Sam finds the image of plush lips wrapped around the digit entirely unhelpful to his boner situation, but the burn in his chest distracts him enough to avoid serious disaster. This isn't the time for a re-evaluation of his sexual preferences, least of all with a self-professed inhuman being.

“Is it done?”

“Yeah. Looks good.”

It certainly looks better than the other two attempts with the knife; the sigil is a clear, angry red, and it spans Sam’s whole chest down to his lower ribs.

“We should get back on the road, then,” Sam suggests, eager to have an excuse to look at something that isn't Dean's features.

"First we need to clean up the mess you made of your arm, Edward Scissorhands."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I've had worse."

"Yeah, and what good friends we became during that time."

Dean motions for him to roll up his sleeve again but Sam is honestly holding it together, figures it'd be a waste of time now.

"Let's just get to Michigan and I promise I'll bathe in antiseptic, okay?"

He gets a wide-eyed stare for his troubles. "Okay, I take it back. Not only do I get why you nearly died all those times, I can't quite figure why there weren't _more_. Are you insane? We're stopping at the next motel we find so you can rest."

"Rest?" to his extreme embarrassment Sam can feel a smile tug at his lips. This argument feels like their old banter, weirdly familiar and fun to come back to. Dean is worried about him. Again. "Dean, you just said there's Reapers, angels and demons after our asses... and you want me to stop for some spa treatment?"

"I said ‘sleep’, ever heard of it? I want you to not die for a change."

"A scratch isn't going to--"

"'Cause if you _do_ die--" Dean interrupts, raising his voice. "--I won't be able to get it up again so fast and your soul will be up for grabs, whoever gets to you first. FYI, the angels don't go easy on the torture, and nothing feels more pain than your soul."

In the end, Sam relents and patches himself up as best as he can using strips of cloth from his own shirt, while Dean watches him like a hawk.

"Satisfied?"

"Not even close," Dean mutters. Then he shoots Sam another of those cheeky grins. "You're welcome to try and rectify the situation."

"Right. You with no body and me on no sleep, that'd work." Sam smiles to himself, shaking his head as he walks back to the driver's side door. He's pretty sure Dean is all bark and no bite, at least when it comes to this trend of blatant come-ons and innuendo. Hell, he might not even be attracted to men, since Sam hasn't heard him mention it in any serious way outside of his flirting--and the flirting just seems to be a consequence of Dean being very aware of the way his vessel looks.

"You break my heart, man.”

“You have a heart?”

Dean mimes a shot to the chest. “Sammy! Low _blow_.”

“Get in the car, Dean.”

Dean glides through and pretends to settle himself comfortably on the seat.

*

Dean lets him drive until about mid-morning before he orders Sam to pull over. They spend a comfortable few minutes arguing motel versus car before Sam wins, and Dean grudgingly accepts defeat by threatening to watch Sam the whole time like a total creep.

Sam knows he would have kept driving, if he’d been alone. With no one to watch out for his health he might have powered through until he literally couldn’t keep his eyes open, but once Dean points it out he does register how badly his right hand stings, the way his left palm is itchy with crusted blood and the attempted sigil high up in his arm is starting to throb a little. His back is cramping worse than ever, and his body seems to have officially begun its systematic shut-down.

He takes his glasses off and, eyelids drooping, tells himself Dean’s making his condition into a bigger deal than it is. Still, he has to admit (privately) that maybe getting some rest wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen.

“How are you even still conscious?”

“I’m trying to rectify the situation, Dean,” Sam mumbles, shifting around in his seat to try and find the position that will hurt his back less when he wakes.

“If you weren’t such a giant dork I’d think there were robotics involved.”

“I’m sorry; feeling up my soul wasn’t enough proof?”

He’s expecting one of Dean’s classic comebacks, but it doesn’t come. He sneaks a peek over his shoulder.

And starts, because Dean’s face is in perfect focus amidst a blurry world, even though Sam’s glasses are tucked safely in his pocket. Wow.

Dean doesn’t seem to have noticed Sam’s surprise, because he’s chewing the inside of his cheek in worry. “Actually Sam, I've been meaning to. Um. It's about the, uh... resurrection make-out.”

After a moment's hesitation spent taking in the contrast between Dean's sharp image and the fuzzy background, Sam decides to let go of the optic anomaly. Like Dean said, they aren’t even supposed to be on the same plane, who knows what other unnatural consequences that might entail.

“... What about it?” he says, not bothering with the glasses again.

“I...well. I-I do realize I never technically asked for your permission, and I wanted to say... You’ve gotta understand, it was the only way, otherwise I never would have—“

“Oh, hey, no,” Sam says hurriedly once he realizes what Dean's worried about. It's both unexpected and quite hilariously endearing. “Is this some sort of consent thing?" He turns, sides screaming in protest. "It’s fine, Dean. You brought me back to _life_.”

“That doesn’t really excuse—“

“It does. It really does.”

“I thought the whole point of consent was that _nothing_ does.”

“Dean. It was one kiss.”

"Y-yeah. I know, but..." he huffs. "I told you about the lore, right? Don't ask me why, but there's some power to that kind of gesture that doesn't quite work any other way. It’s tied into every legend ever but the basis is quite real; it has to do with awakenings and shit and I’m sorry but literally nothing else would have worked..."

Sam’s stomach sinks and he’s abruptly struck by the desire to scrape some blood off the steering wheel. He lets Dean ramble on about how there was literally no other outcome he could have pursued (no other possibility, he basically had _no choice_ but to do it...) before finally getting fed up.

"... I swear, even now that I've had time to think about it, if you asked me how else--"

“ _Okay_ ," he says loudly. The red-brown flecks are damn difficult to distinguish on the black leather, and even harder to peel off. "I get it. I know it didn’t mean anything, dude, relax. I’m over the whole thing, all right? Now, can I sleep?”

He’s so intent on his task that he misses the way Dean’s expression shuts down a little.

“Okay. Cool. Then that’s... yeah. Get some shuteye, Sammy, I’ll go find food.”

“I thought you couldn’t act on the corporeal—“

“I said _find_ , not bring. G’night.”

“It’s the middle of the day--” but he’s talking to himself, because Dean’s already vanished.

Sam closes his eyes and lets out a long, slow breath.

He doesn’t dream.

*

According to the car’s dashboard, Sam wakes up nine hours later. It’s the longest stretch of sleep he’s had since Jess, maybe the first time ever he's gone so many hours without crashing back to consciousness in a cold sweat. He comes to slowly, thoughts languid and smushed.

Dean is sitting next to him again, a grim look on his face.

Sam grins, dopey and still out of it. “You look grim,” he croaks, pushing his glasses onto his nose with sleep-clumsy fingers. “ _Grim_ , get it?”

“We have a problem.”

“Huh?”

“There’s been a... complication.”

That serves to wake him up more effectively than a shot of espresso.

"What? With what?"

"I'm being guarded."

" _What?_ "

"My body, I mean. It's being watched." Dean rubs a hand on the back of his neck, but his hair is intact once he draws it away. "Demons, and maybe some other crap, too."

"What other crap? What do you mean, your body is being watched?"

"I went back for a quick check, just to make sure everything was okay, y'know, safe for you to show up... And I don’t know how they found it but they freaking _proofed_ the place. Against _me_."

"Let me get this straight." Sam sits forward and pushes his hair out of his eyes. "You're saying demons have your body hostage, and you can't get it back because they warded it against you? Your _own body_."

"They can't do anything to it," Dean says. "I am one fine piece of ass, and you never know who'll wanna take an empty vessel out for a spin, so it's got every supernatural ward you can think of and then some."

"Then what's the problem?"

"They've locked me out, and they're waiting for us outside the building. So now they can't get in and neither can I. But that's not actually the worst part--"

"Great."

"I saw a couple of black-eyed bastards hanging around, trying to blend in with the civilians... and then this one dude standing in front of the door. Staring. And he wasn't a demon, he had way more power than that. My best guess is some sort of higher-ranking hell admin or an angel."

"Holy shit."

"Exactly." They share an amused look, and then Dean’s expression sobers. "Listen Sam, I know 'angel' sounds good on paper but you’ve gotta trust me on this, okay? We're talking soldiers of Heaven with their own agenda, not cutesy cherubs shooting heart-shaped arrows. Think protocol-loving, feathery dicks."

"... Thanks for the mental image."

Dean snorts. "I'm serious, man. You humans get all wrapped up in this idealized image of the winged douchebags and seeing the comedown ain't pretty. Archangels are just all of the above times ten, with a little extra ego thrown in. My point is the upstairs neighbors are ruthless, incredibly powerful... and for some reason, very interested in you."

Sam had quite enough with Azazel's oily words of praise; he doesn't want to know why angels would want anything to do with a guy whose blood runs with a hint of demonic essence.

_Unless all they wanted was for you to stay dead, Sam._

"Whatever it is, it can't be good," he says lamely.

"Definitely not." Dean shoots him a pointed look. "And this might be a good time to catch me up on your special relationship with Azazel, by the way. 'Cause it looks like you're important enough to warrant a damn free-for-all."

He's about to answer that he has no idea when a frightening thought occurs to him. "What if it's not me, though? What if it's you they want?"

Dean blinks at him for a long moment... and then lets out a loud laugh. " _Me_?" he claps his hands and it makes a weirdly dulled sound. "If it were Reapers waiting for me to show up then yeah, I'm in deep shit with that department and I know it... but _demons_? Possibly an angel? I'm a nobody, Sam; you're the hunter with psychic powers. I'm just the unfortunate yet much more attractive sidekick."

"But I _lost_. Azazel's crazy game was so that the winner would lead his army of demons out of hell... and _Jake_ won, not me. So if this is about me then it's not about the demon blood, right? It's got to be about the whole 'resurrected' thing, doesn't it?"

Dean shakes his head. "I told you, one revived soul isn't enough to stir all this crap, there's got to be more to it. Something about _your_ soul, specifically."

Sam takes this in, stomach churning uncomfortably.

"Bet you're starting to wish you'd just let me stay dead, huh?" he says finally, and hates how hard it fails at sounding aloof.

"Shut up."

"Look Dean, I know bringing me back is going to get you in a lot of trouble, but... how bad are we talking, here?"

Dean shrugs. "Lots, probably."

_Why did you do it, then?_

"Can you be more specific?"

"Well, I've been a pretty good little soldier until now, so... I'm not sure. Tessa was just an attempt at damage control, though. They probably figured she could get me to change my mind, 'cause she and I go back some." He snorts. "Nice try. But the big boss has a lot worse than her up its sleeve, and it's a good thing the place is hidden from my own kind, too."

Sam's worry has only doubled thanks to that little tidbit, but he tries to hide it as best as he can. "Well, at least Cerberus loves you, right?" he says shakily.

That gets him a chuckle. "Yeah. Yeah, there's that."

When he can't think of anything else to say, he starts the car and gets back on the road, ignoring the urge to stretch and walk and _eat_. Some water would be nice, too.

*

It’s pretty bizarre, how easy and seamless it is to spend time with Dean. The hours on the road fly by, either in comfortable silence or talking about nothing at all (they argue Chuck Norris versus Jet Li for a full hour, and then that somehow leads to a licorice versus popcorn as movie-food debate) and the word ‘friends’ continues to rattle about in Sam’s head. Are they friends? He’s not sure, but he isn’t going to ask Dean either; he doubts he could handle the endless mocking laughter that would certainly follow.

They stop for food, gas and bandages that night, but since Sam got such a good sleep he chooses to just drive on. Thankfully, Dean doesn’t object (well, he stops objecting once Sam cleans the wounds and covers himself in sterile wrapping).

With Dean beside him, a full stomach, a trunk full of supplies and a warm coffee to sip as he drives, Sam’s so close to something like contentment that he doesn’t even feel a twinge of guilt after paying with one of his fake cards. He asks Dean to fill him in on as much Death lore as he can remember, and Dean reluctantly agrees (but studiously avoids talking about himself).

"...and my department is in charge of their transition.”

“Transition.”

“Yeah. We take every soul where it needs to go, y’know: up, down or... other. We keep the count, we guide and protect them, the whole shebang. But once a soul reaches its destination, then it changes jurisdiction. Heaven, Hell, wherever it ends up... they have their own laws about what can or can't be done to a soul once admitted."

Sam nods along, all the while thinking in exclamation marks.

" _Your_ soul never reached its destination, but that would mean only one interested party, get it? If it was only a demon, that'd make sense. Heaven wouldn't have even sent an angel, let alone an archangel, but I wouldn't be suspicious about a lowly cherub coming down to ask about your whereabouts." Sam would have been, because there's no way he was going upstairs. Just no way. "But a freaking _archangel_ appearing seconds after you're back _and_ multiple demons staking out my ass in hopes of you showing up? No way that's normal for just any lost human. Take a left at the next intersection."

Contrary to what Sam expected, the address Dean directs him towards isn’t some abandoned warehouse far from human population. The neighborhood seems far from family-friendly, but there are a lot of potential witnesses walking about when Dean finally points to the top floor of a dark and dingy-looking apartment building.

“Huh,” Sam says. “So you live here?”

“I don’t live anywhere, that'd be stupid."

Sam shoots him an offended look.

"I move around a lot," Dean clarifies. "Reaping is a booming business Sammy, we never run out of clients and there’s always work to do.” He grins. “Plus, the benefits are terrible; there’s no dental and I barely get any time off.”

"I thought you could teleport."

"I can; it'd still be stupid to set up base camp in one place and not change it regularly. I told you about being a special snowflake, right? I can't just leave an empty vessel at the same address all the time."

"No health insurance, huh?" Sam says with a smile.

Dean smiles back. "No health insurance."

Sam parks the bulky, conspicuous car across the street and is about to open the door when Dean barks out: “ _Wait_.”

He sits back down slowly. “Demons?”

“Yeah. Mommy dearest pushing that empty stroller, homeless guy reading the magazine, and Mr Repairman with the grey overalls. But they aren’t the ones I’m worried about.”

Sam looks around, trying to sort out the ordinary from the extraordinary; the natural from the... _not_ natural.

“Check out Flasher Trench coat by the graffitied phone booth.”

He spots the figure immediately. A man in a—well, yes, it does look like what Sam used to think of as 'Inspector Gadget coats'—is standing with his back to their side of the road. The man is looking up at the apartment block Dean pointed out, and he's perfectly still.

“That thing’s powerful," Dean remarks. "Could definitely be angelic, but I don’t get why it hasn’t taken out the demons yet.”

“So... what’s the plan?”

“Well, I can’t get into the building until someone breaks the sigil on the front door.”

Sam looks at it, puzzled. There’s quite a lot of street art on and around it, but no scorch marks, no suspiciously rusty-red markings that stand out. “...But there is no sigil on the front door.”

“It’s not drawn in blood, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Dean says. “Look again.”

Sam does, and fixates on a black scribble that he'd dismissed as some sort of gang-sign.

“Oh."

Then he registers what it implies.

"Wait, are you saying we could have just _penciled all this in_?” he says loudly, gesturing at the multiple extremities he's had to wrap bandages around.

“Of course not. Ink on flesh has to be permanent or it won’t work. And I didn't see a tattoo parlor handy, did you?”

Touché. "Fine. So... what do you want me to do?"

Dean frowns. "What do you mean?"

"How do we distract the demons so I can erase the sigil?"

"You?" Dean looks horrified. "Underfed, under-slept, supernatural catnip, _you_? No way."

"But... how else are we going to do it? You won't be able to get close without them making you."

Dean looks almost offended at that. "Hey, archangels may be a bit much for little old me but I can handle a couple of low-level demons."

"But--"

"Demons aren't a hundred percent on the corporeal plane, that's how they move their vessels around with them. I can fight them."

The possibility of Dean getting hurt is scarier than Sam wants to admit.

"What about Trench coat Guy? You said he was powerful."

"He's not an archangel," Dean says with a shrug.

"You just said we don't know what he is," Sam counters, exasperated. Dean opens his mouth to argue but Sam cuts him off. "And knowing one thing that he _isn't_ is the opposite of helpful, Dean."

"It so is, though—“

"You are quite welcome to ask."

Sam jumps what feels like a foot in the air and Dean actually lets out a strangled yell.

Trench coat Guy is sitting in the backseat.

"Jesus _Christ_!"

"I am an angel of the lord."

The man sits forward and adds, in what manages to be grave earnestness:

"And my name is actually Castiel."

Sam's breath leaves his body in a rush, and the realization hits him like a sledgehammer.

_There's an angel in the backseat of his stolen car._

"Angel or no, a little warning would have been nice," Dean is saying. "I thought your people valued manners and all that crap."

Suddenly it’s as though he can’t think beyond: angel, backseat, stolen vehicle. Sam prayed to God every night for twelve years because John had told him his mother used to do the same, and there's an angel less than three feet away from him.

An actual angel is talking to him from the backseat of the car he broke into after he came back to life because his Reaper kissed him which for some reason unmade the deadly stab-wound he sustained while fighting for his life against a group of people his age who were chosen by the same yellow-eyed demon who killed Sam's family on the off chance that it would drive Sam dark enough to lead a _demon march through the gates of hell_ \--

"Sammy, _breathe_."

Dean is waving a hand in front of his eyes, making the angel Castiel flicker in and out of view.

Sam snaps out of it.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry."

His life has become slightly overwhelming, is all.

"You okay?"

Before Sam can answer Dean's soft inquiry, Castiel sits forward some more. "I bring heaven's formal greetings, Dean and Sam Winchester," he says.

He's wearing a slightly rumpled suit under the trench coat, with a blue tie that doesn't quite match his eyes. Taking him in properly after a couple of deep breaths, Sam has to admit that the effect isn't anything earth-shattering. He's not sure what he expected from such an incredibly powerful being, but an attractive tax accountant wasn't it.

Nevertheless, he hears himself say: "You're really an angel," and, embarrassingly, it comes out rather breathless. He can feel Dean gaping at him.

Castiel tilts his head to the side. He looks like he doesn't blink, ever.

"Yes. And you are one twelve-thousandth demonic," he replies. He sounds quite calm, too, as though they are exchanging no more than placid small talk.

Sam has no ready answer to such a statement.

It's probably a good thing that Dean takes over from there. "Great, and I'm the Reaper that makes this interspecies threesome complete. That's the pleasantries done with, is it? Good. You wanna tell me why you were doing a reverse Rear Window on my apartment?"

Castiel blinks, invalidating Sam's theory, and turns to look at Dean.

"I was tasked with the vigil of your vessel, Dean."

Dean makes a vaguely nauseated face. "That's... creepy."

" _Dean_ ," Sam hisses. Superficial appearances aside, Castiel is an _angel_. Surely there are consequences to badmouthing a soldier of the lord?

"What? It is!" Dean protests. And then he points a finger at Castiel accusingly. "What do you want to do to my body, pal?"

Sam smacks his forehead with his palm at that one.

Castiel looks politely puzzled. "...Nothing. I was guarding it for you."

"I got that. Why?"

"I do not understand."

"What do you want from us?" Dean says impatiently.

Polite bafflement is edging towards blank incomprehension. "I do not understand the question."

Dean looks just about ready to have an aneurism. "Which _part_?"

Sam wants to ask him to be nicer to the celestial being, but at this point he'd settle for Dean not baring his teeth quite so aggressively.

"Sam is in a unique position to stop Azazel from opening the gates of Hell," Castiel says slowly. "There is no question about me wanting anything from you; it is surely you who will benefit from my aid."

"We don't want your help," Dean says rudely. Sam turns wide eyes at him and by the time he looks back to apologize to Castiel, the angel has vanished.

" _Dude_."

"What?"

"You could have at least heard him out!"

"Angels may not lie, but I'll bet you anything he wasn't telling the full truth," Dean says resolutely. "Don't be fooled by a vessel's wide baby-blues, Sam, this 'Castiel' is a creature of immense power and if it's offering to help us it's only 'cause--"

"You need it."

They both jump again.

Castiel is back.

"The demons are no longer a threat to us," he says simply.

Sam twists around to look out the window. There are still a few pedestrians walking by, but the repairman, the homeless man and the woman with the stroller have vanished. No one is screaming, so it looks like Castiel managed to do it under the radar, too.

He turns back to exchange a look with Dean. "You just killed three demons in about as many seconds," Sam clarifies, eyes still on Dean. Because that's pretty impressive in his book, and Castiel is an _angel_. Stopping Azazel sounds like something Sam wants to do, and with a being like this guy on their side it seems like there's a good chance they'd succeed. He wants Azazel dead, that's been his reason for sticking around from the start.

"Did you spare the vessels?" Dean asks, holding Sam’s gaze as well.

"There was no time; the demons could have vanished and escaped to alert their superiors. I did, however, move the bodies far so your coworkers will not visit this area in the immediate future."

Dean gives Sam a pointed look but Castiel's explanation sounds pretty reasonable to him. Tragic, but unavoidable.

"If Fate has seen fit to reunite you two there must be something important for you to do," Castiel goes on. There's a brief pause, then he adds: "She's quite thorough about these things, hasn't made a mistake yet."

"Fate is a--"

Dean holds up a hand. "Not the time, Sammy."

"Avenging your mother's death and averting Hell's reign on earth in one move surely counts as important."

It's the way the angel says it that gets to Sam; rough-scratchy voice stating simple facts, not entreating or sugar-coating it to convince them. He nods along to Castiel’s words.

Dean clears his throat loudly and shifts around like he's about to get up and leave the car. "Look, that sounds grand and all, but if Sam and I decide to do that we'll do it on our own terms, thanks."

"I would only aid, not interfere," Castiel assures him.

"And I'm sure after Sam did everything you guys want you'll just let him live out his natural days hunting in peace, right? A guy one twelve-thousandth demonic? I’ve heard your pals are real big on making exceptions with this sorta thing."

The angel is silent.

Sam is quiet, too. He never really planned on having a life after killing Azazel, but Dean seems determined for him to live one.

"Didn't think so. That's a 'thanks, but no thanks' from us, then. Sorry."

He's halfway through the door when Castiel reaches out and places one tapered finger on the back of his hand.

Dean stills, and suddenly Sam gets it. The trench coat was funny and the suit looked like it hadn't been ironed in a while but there's this moment--a few long seconds confined in the classic car they happened to find on the side of the road--when Castiel is so obviously, terrifyingly threatening that the universe seems to be holding its breath. The sky above darkens and electric blue eyes shine like there's something icy-white deep inside the angel's pupils. Something holy and lethal.

" _I cannot allow you to leave_."

The words hang in the air, echoing ("... _to leave... leave... eave_...").

Castiel is looking up at Dean and Dean is looking down at Castiel and it feels like it might go on forever until, much to Sam's confusion, Dean breaks the stalemate to look at _him_. And he smiles reassuringly and tugs his hand free, all reckless bravery again.

"You need us more than we need you," he states, stepping out and turning to lean halfway inside. If the car window was rolled down it could almost appear as though he's looking in, hip cocked casually (as it is, his torso goes through the glass).

The sky above has cleared and the white light in Castiel’s eyes is gone.

"I did not mean to frighten you, but you must understand that it is my duty to aid and supervise the defeat of Azazel's..."

"Oh, _supervise_ , is it? There's a word you didn't use before." Dean makes a shooing motion at Sam so that he gets out of the car. "I'm gonna go get my body now and Sam's coming to help me. The whole apartment building is angel proof, so you're gonna have to stay in the car. Once everyone in this team is equally bodily abled, we can argue for as long as you like."

Castiel doesn't move to follow them, simply thinks it over a second before nodding. The subtle gesture makes it quite clear that this is something he's _allowing_.

Sam isn't sure how he feels about leaving an angel waiting in the car, but at least it's just him and Dean again.

"Dean--"

"He can still hear us," Dean interrupts. Sam appreciates Dean pretending to walk with him instead of vanishing into the apartment, but he's very conscious of the fact that he's at risk of being taken for a schizophrenic.

"'Kay."

Breaking the sigil turns out to mean scratching the graffiti until there's a continuous break, and then all Sam has to do is discreetly pick the lock. And they're in.

The building is run-down and dusty in a way that makes it quite clear there’s no cleaning service coming along any time soon. The pale sunlight gets filtered through grimy windows to create an amber light, thick and rich with golden dust-motes swirling in the air.

Sam locks the door behind him and turns to find Dean standing with his arms crossed over his chest, black suit catching the light strangely. He looks extremely unimpressed.

"... What?”

"Good job on not letting the whole 'angel' thing get to you, there."

Sam feels his cheeks heat. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

" _'You're really an angel'_ ," Dean breathes, in a high-pitched falsetto that sounds nothing like Sam. "What the hell was that? You sounded like a star-struck puppy."

"I did _not_."

Dean snorts. "You so did. Dude, I warned you about angels for a reason: don't trust the lore 'cause most of it's wrong, and you can’t be fooled—“

“—by a vessel’s blue eyes, you said that already. Are we sure the demons are taken care of?” Sam starts making his way up the stairs.

“Yeah. We’re also sure your new man-crush will be waiting for us when we wanna leave.”

Sam ignores this.

The apartment, when they finally get to it, is pitch-dark; with boarded up windows.

Once the door closes everything goes black, and Sam can’t tell the difference between having his eyes open or shut. His steps falter until he hears Dean’s disembodied smoky voice.

“There’s a light switch by the door.”

He turns and clumsily feels his way up and down the wall, sensing paint flecks peeling off under his fingernails. Finally, his thumb brushes the switch.

He turns it on.

The sight revealed is unreal, even given everything Sam’s been through.

For starters, it isn’t any ordinary halogen light but a black light, bathing everything in a deep blueish-purple hue. And the true source of illumination isn’t the bulb at all; it comes from the walls, floors, windows and ceiling, because they are completely covered in symbols.

Spanning all cultures and religions, sizes and shapes, the drawings provide a pale, iridescent fluorescence. The apartment is completely empty of furniture or appliances, and every square inch of it has been painted on. The protective sigils form a vast swirling circular pattern, not instantly apparent, that slowly draws Sam’s eyes to the middle of the room.

There’s a shape lying on a mattress on the floor, lit by the glowing sea of paint.

“Is that...?” he breathes.

“Yup. Little old me.”

Sam walks forward without asking for permission. He wants to see; needs to.

“I’ve been out for almost three days, so... don’t hold it against me.”

Sam barely registers that. Dean’s body is on its side, facing away from him, so he walks around on shaky legs. He’s been anticipating this since he found out Dean had a body, but the underlying desire to know more about his Reaper, to see him vulnerable and bare the way Dean’s seen Sam so many times, has been there much longer.

Dean lies asleep, features relaxed in unconsciousness and mouth slack. An empty IV bag is connected to his forearm.

Sam’s first thought is that he looks so... _real_.

He’s wearing a simple shirt and jeans combo but it’s the minutiae that strike Sam hard. Getting to examine Dean’s body up close and completely at his liberty is an experience he’d never quite dared to indulge in with his Reaper, and he sees now that Reaper-Dean is perfect in an unreal way because he lacks _detail_. Sam had thought he was too well-made to be a mere projection but now it’s clear that he was just too well-made, period. This body is approachable in a way the spirit alone is not because this Dean has pores, a hint of stubble, pillow creases, _freckles_. Quite a lot of freckles, actually. He’s _amazing_.

“Wanna try your hand at Prince Charming me awake?”

Sam startles.

His Reaper is standing over him, looking down at Sam with a shaky smile. “Being really awesome at spirit-walking means you can make minor changes in your spirit-form. I can’t turn into a dragon and I can't poltergeist stuff but hey, at least I have the ability to apply afterlife-Photoshop.”

Sam looks back down at the sleeping man.

“The uniform, for example, is totally not real, ‘cause there’s no way I could afford a suit like that. Reaping is a surprisingly bad way to make a living,” Dean rambles on. “Oh, and I don't have tattoos in spirit-form either, 'cause apparently they're 'not professional'.”

“Why would you get rid of the freckles?” Sam hears himself ask.

There’s an incredulous silence (there may not be a sound, but the lack of sound is dripping incredulity).

“Uh. Because they look bad?”

“No they don’t.” Sam looks up from his crouch and smiles at Dean to lighten the moment. It’s starting to dawn on him that, as hard to believe as it may be, Dean seems to be self-conscious about his appearance. “I’d have definitely followed you into the light that first time if you had _freckles_.”

Dean snorts. "Duly noted. So how long are you allowed to watch me sleep before it becomes creepy? 'Cause it feels kind of creepy already, man, and you know _Twilight_ was messed up.”

“Right.” He stands up. “Sorry. It’s just... you’re exactly the same, but there’s... more stuff.”

“More... stuff?”

“Like the freckles. And the...” _the way you’re real. The fact that I’ll finally be able to touch your skin, if you let me_. “I don’t know.”

Dean grins. “Eloquence is totally your thing.”

“Isn’t this the time for you to kiss yourself?”

It’s not like he’s been anticipating that at all since the thought occurred.

Dean’s grin becomes a dirty smirk. “Why yes, it is. Dare I suggest you’ve been dreaming of this moment ever since you were a little girl?”

Sam resists the urge to stick out his tongue at his Reaper and steps back.

Dean swaggers over to kneel down in front of his own body. “Take it in, Sammy, you’re only getting to see this once.”

Both Deans are lit by the firefly-blue light, but corporeal-Dean captures it much better than spirit-Dean does. Spirit-Dean is shrouded in darkness and visible by his own means, as though his light source is coming from somewhere else. As though he doesn’t belong here.

The move is quick and practiced, and Sam is reminded that Dean does this very often. His Reaper leans forward, hand outstretched as though he’s bracing himself on his own chest, and then plush lips descend on their mirror image.

The moment they make contact Dean’s spirit flashes bright gold and becomes a thick mist that loses all identifiable form. It soars into his mouth and fills his body in pulsing flashes that outline his ribcage, until the gold seems to absorb into the flesh and gently begins to fade.

Sam only has to wait for a second.

Dean comes to with a choked gasp and the first thing he does is roll over and dry heave for a few moments, coughing and cursing without actually throwing up.

“Dean?”

He draws in a wheezy breath.

“Ninth reanimation in a row without blowin’ chunks,” he croaks. “New freaking record. Yay me.”

Sam hadn’t realized he’s been expecting Dean to be different until it’s obvious that the man is exactly the same.

“How are you feeling?”

“Starving.” He yanks the IV out with a force that makes Sam wince. “Magical coma or not, I need my sustenance.” He sits up and well-worn boots scuff against the floor.

“There’s food in the trunk, remember? You made me buy that blueberry pie?”

“Awesome.”

While Dean shuffles and braces himself to stand up, Sam discreetly lowers his glasses a moment to check that he’s just as blurry as his background. He is. When Sam pushes them back up his nose he can’t help but take notice of Dean’s callused fingers, his veiny forearms and strong biceps. An intricate black design peeks out from under the V-neck.

After seeing him in his neat black suit for so long a simple T-shirt makes him look practically naked.

"Dean?"

Despite his shuffling around, the Reaper still hasn’t made a move to stand up from the mattress.

“You need a hand?” Sam asks.

Dean smiles condescendingly. “This ain’t my first rodeo, Sammy.” And surges upward.

He’s on his feet for less than a second before swaying precariously.

Sam grabs him before he collapses; it's a close call. And there's something else about this body Sam hadn't considered: Dean is _heavy_. His arms are corded with muscle; his shoulders broad and bulky. And he’s tall—not as tall as Sam (no one is) but still above average. For some reason Sam hadn't really anticipated something as obvious as Dean's weight; hadn't factored in the mass and solidity of Dean's frame. It helps anchor the concept that Dean is more real than ever, now. Dean is like him.

Dean also smells like someone who hasn't had a shower in a while, but even that's comfortingly human. So many new senses.

“Dude, I’m real flattered and all but I’ve been in a coma for the past sixty-odd hours. I need my recovery period.”

They are practically standing nose-to-nose. Dean’s skin is sleep-warm and the dusty golden freckles are _everywhere_.

"Right."

He lets Dean go and the Reaper stays standing this time.

“Freaking mountain-man,” Dean grumbles, but his lips twitch. “What the hell did your parents feed you growing up, anyway.”

Sam pretends to think about it. “Guilt and alcoholism, mostly.”

That gets Dean looking instantly contrite. “Shit, Sam."

Sam waves a dismissive hand. “My dad did the best he could, it wasn't all bad. It's forgotten.” And it really is. “So this place is...” he looks around the dark purple room. “—cosy. Can we stay here?”

“Nah. It’s been compromised." Dean stretches his arms up over his head, back bowing. A strip of his stomach peeks out above the belt of his jeans. "First we need to ditch your new boy toy and then we need to proof that car properly so I can find us a safe house, regroup for a bit. Maybe see how long you can hold out without suffering a serious injury.”

Sam had rolled his eyes at the ‘boy toy’ jibe but he refuses to comment on it. “How are we supposed to ditch an angel?”

“Same way we did last time, only cooler.” Dean heads over to the closest window, and the creaking sound of his feet on the floorboards is yet another thing Sam hadn't realized was missing before. Corporeal-Dean comes with background noise. “There’s a special kind of blood sigil that will blow him and any other heavenly servant within a one-mile radius—“

“Dean,” Sam interrupts.

Dean gets a look on his face like he can tell he’s not going to like what Sam says next. "What."

“Listen, I know you know more about angels than I do, but... he did say he just wanted to help.”

Dean's jaw hardens, and yes, he definitely looks pissed now. When he starts to yank at one of the wooden boards his movements are brusque with tightly controlled anger.

“Yeah Sam, he did say that, by _golly_ that must mean his intentions are pure and your virtue will remain intact.” _Crack_. The nails give and the plank comes off, letting bright midday sun flood the room. “It’s not like I didn’t risk my neck for you a couple of days ago or anything," Dean goes on, blinking blearily in the light. "Not like I haven’t known you for years.” A second plank is more easily ripped off. “I mean hell, _Castiel_ was there for you when you went psycho after that girl you loved so much died, right?”

“Don’t,” Sam chokes. He's suddenly and instantly on the same level of fury as Dean. “Don’t you _dare_ talk about her like that.”

His eyes sting with the familiar prickle of unshed tears.

“I'm sorry."

Sam shakes his head. Jess is untouchable, and he can't... he hasn't...

"That was outta line, Sam. I didn’t mean it.”

Dean steps toward him, pale in the sunlight, and the one thing that is completely unchanged from his spirit form is the unnatural brightness of his green eyes.

“I wasn’t there for you either, I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s just... you’re all dewy-eyed over this dude and it’s not letting you see how _dangerous_ he is. I’m just trying to look out for you.”

_Why?_

_Why, why, why,_ why _?_

“It’s... well, it’s not okay but let’s just forget about it.”

“Okay. I'm really--”

“Forget about it," Sam repeats firmly. "And I’ll try to tone it down around Castiel.”

“Hey, if you wanna be like that with _me_ that’s totally fine,” Dean says with a tentative smile. Then he nods his head like the idea has only just struck him. “Oh, hey, so how come you were never all star-struck over me? Like, not even at the start.”

“Come on, it's not that bad.”

“What, is it only angels? Reapers not fancy enough for you?”

“ _Dean_.”

Dean chuckles. “Okay, okay, I get it. You're the prayin' type, aren't you?”

Sam has a brief flash of himself at eight years old, kneeling by a motel bed with his hands clasped over the covers like he'd seen people do in movies. He would close his eyes so hard and wish for his brother to save him one more time.

"I used to be."

Dean nods. "Well, I hate to burst that bubble but we're ditching him. And here's how..."

*

"Dean. Your corporeal form is as conventionally aesthetically pleasing as your spirit projection."

Dean cringes as he starts the car. "...Gee. Thanks."

Sam snickers quietly.

"Have you decided to accept my indubitably invaluable assistance?" Castiel inquires. He's sitting in the exact same position as they left him, and it looks like he hasn't moved an inch.

"Absolutely," Dean says, flooring the gas to get as far from civilians as possible. "We realized how very big of you it was to let the demons hang out long enough to show off your power to us."

The angel scrunches up his face in confusion. "You are mocking me."

"Ten points to the holy douches."

"You would do well to reconsider this, Winchester."

Sam frowns. "We're still going to stop the yellow-eyed demon. Just... without you."

"Sammy's real polite," Dean drawls, taking a turn at impressive speed. They are starting to leave even the fringes of the city behind. "I'm not. We want you to leave us alone."

"I told you that was not an option," Castiel says. His vessel's features are hardening with anger, and the glow inside his pupils is coming back.

"No?"

Castiel's eyes flare brighter. His voice echoes again. " _No_."

Dean looks around, out of the windows. They are near a deserted railway line; convenient and devoid of witnesses.

"You wanna do the honors, Sam?"

Sam raises a palm wet with blood.

"Sorry," he tells the angel, and presses his hand to his chest.

There's a blinding flash and a powerful wind batters Sam's frame. When he opens his eyes Castiel is gone, and Dean is fighting to right the car and keep it on the road.

"You okay?" Dean says immediately.

"Yeah, yeah m'fine. It didn't hurt."

Sam wipes the blood on his leg. It's Dean's, because the Reaper refused point blank to let Sam get so much as another scratch.

 _'It works like a total battery recharge for the mark on your chest_ ,' Dean had said. _'Blood is powerful_.'

 _'Yeah. And unhygienic_.'

Apparently the mark Dean burned on him is especially good at banishing angels. Beyond working to conceal the bearer, it will blast a holy being a million miles away if activated with blood. Sam wants to draw it and scan it and lock himself in a library to research the hell out of all these new symbols he's learning, but unfortunately they don't really have the time.

Instead, he's stuck trying to spit-clean the mess they made; the red streaks of Dean's blood are hard to get out from the creases and lines of his hand.

"I would kill for a hot shower," Dean grumbles a little while later.

"I can tell. You stink."

Dean punches his arm and Sam grins, shoving back at him. The contact feels... good. Sam hasn't goofed around like this with anyone since college. Since Jess.

"Bitch."

"Hey, you said it first."

"You're no bed of roses yourself, you know. At least I've been in a magically-induced coma."

"Sure, Dean."

Dean's eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

“We should stop at a motel tonight.” When Sam doesn’t argue immediately, Dean’s smile broadens. “The hex bags will work as temporary concealment and I don't wanna know how long you've been wearing the same underwear."

"Not as long as you."

" _Magical_ coma, Sammy. It's not like I peed myself." And after a short pause he adds; "But who says I'm wearing underwear?"

Sam's retort catches in his throat, and Dean looks annoyingly pleased with himself for the rest of the drive.

*

The shower feels like heaven.

Sam stays under the hot spray long after he’s scrubbed himself clean, and he soaps up his grimy hair three times even though one would have probably been enough. Even the ragged, uneven scarring on his back feels a little less tense after the warm rivulets ease his neck and shoulders into a more relaxed stance. He’s never been one to indulge in the simple pleasures but after cleaning away mud, sweat, dirt and blood, his will to duck out from under the comforting water seems to have withered away.

It isn’t until Dean knocks on the door and shouts: “Would you just come already!” that he snaps out of his haze.

His cheeks are already flushed with the vapor. It’s not… he’s not reacting to Dean’s words.

“ _Jesus_ , Dean," he calls. "I’m not jerking off!”

“Then you’re doing it wrong.” There’s a pause, and then: “Unless you’re being clever about the phrasing and you have two fingers up your ass, in which case my previous statement stands. Fucking _come_ so I can shower, too.”

Sam’s dick twitches.

“That’s n-not…” Fuck. He shouldn’t have said anything. Shouldn’t have started the sentence; the stutter gave him away completely.

He heaves in a wet breath to try again, but Dean speaks first.

“Not what?” His Reaper’s voice has an edge of roughness. Maybe. It’s hard to tell over the sound of the shower. “You never touched yourself like that, Sammy?”

He could just be teasing.

“’Course I have,” Sam forces out. He's getting harder, blood-flushed and hard enough that he’s going to have to do it (do as Dean says, do what Dean’s ordering him to— _fuck_ ) before he gets out.

“Then get on with it.”

“Can’t get on with it if you’re yelling at me.”

Dean takes a long moment to answer.

“What if I wasn’t yelling.”

Sam wraps a hand around himself and his back thuds against the wall, even though it’s cold and probably dirty. His gut is a swirling mix of arousal and guilt.

“You doing it?”

Sam bites his lip hard to keep in a groan when his other hand inches behind himself, and doesn’t reply for fear of embarrassing himself further.

He is, though. He is doing it, just as Dean asked.

“C’mon Sammy, it’s getting late and the warm water’s gonna run out. Gotta twist that finger just right to get at where it feels good, yeah?”

Oh, Jesus. Sam’s only got the very tip of his finger rubbing at his hole, but his stomach is already clenching in anticipation. He feels shivery with it, lulled half out of his mind by the thick steam.

“Gotta make it quick, so just do what you like best and shoot fast.”

It’s been ages, and Dean’s voice is unholy. Sam slides his finger in to the first knuckle and hisses. He’s so hard.

“You almost there, Sammy? I’m waiting.”

And suddenly that’s it. Sam’s barely started, the hand around his cock still loose and teasing, when his whole body shudders and he comes. It hits him like a freight train, hard and unexpectedly perfect, and he has to make the most embarrassing hitching noises to avoid a loud moan that will give him away.

" _Fuck_."

He isn't sure whether his post-orgasmic brain dreams up the syllable or Dean actually grunts out the word right outside, but either way it makes him twitch with one last after-shock.

Sam shuts off the water after rinsing himself off and climbs out of the shower on jelly-legs.

"Finally!" Dean's voice is loud (too loud, even?) from the other side of the flimsy door. "I've had relationships shorter than that shower!"

"That didn't even make any sense," Sam manages, throat dry despite the humidity of the bathroom. "Also, you've had relationships? How?"

"Hey, I only work for Death when I'm in spirit form. This body's seen plenty of action." When Sam doesn't answer Dean clarifies: "Sex. I'm talking about sex, okay? I've had loads of it. Ask anyone."

It's too ridiculous. Sam bursts out laughing.

"What?"

He's still laughing when he opens the door and nearly topples Dean over because the Reaper was standing right behind it. It may be a touch hysterical but Sam's pretty sure he's never laughed like this, not in his entire life.

"Asshole," Dean grumbles, but Sam thinks he might be smiling too (the world is foggy because he left his glasses next to the sink).

They don't talk about what may or may not have just happened. Don't even mention it the whole time Dean spends busying around and bitching Sam out for leaving his girly products ( _one_ tub of motel conditioner and his glasses) all over.

When they pass each other Sam knocks their shoulders together just for the solid reminder of how much closer Dean feels now.

By the time Sam lets himself fall into bed, reapplied bandages stinging mildly with antiseptic, his head is ringing with exhaustion.

"Dean?" he says, muffled against the pillow.

There's the sound of rustling fabric and then of the covers in Dean's bed being pulled back.

"What."

Sam lifts up onto his elbows and looks at Dean from under his bangs.

"Can I ask you something? It's personal."

"You're requesting permission first?" Dean says with exaggerated astonishment. Then he sighs tiredly. "I'm not guaranteeing an answer, but sure, ask away."

"What were you, before you became a Reaper?"

Dean tenses up, and doesn't meet Sam's eyes. He takes his sweet time in speaking, too.

Finally, he mumbles: "That's an interestin' question there, Sammy. Been asking myself that for as long as I can remember."

Sam had honestly expected a dismissal or a movie quote for his troubles, but Dean's words make a chill run down his spine.

It was one thing when he thought Dean was just being cryptic about his origins; quite another if the reason for that is that Dean _doesn't know_.

The silence stretches on, but Sam tells himself to keep quiet. This is all he's wanted since they met; to know more about Dean, to understand his peculiar existence. If Dean is finally ready to share he should just let the guy do that and not ruin the moment by saying something stupid.

"Truth is I'm not powerful," Dean says in a low voice.

Sam stays very still.

"I'm not a Reaper by choice, either. Me n' the Pale Rider... it's not exactly a boss and employee relationship. More like Death owns my ass twenty-four seven, and it's only because of it that I can do the things I do."

He huffs and shifts to finally look straight at Sam.

"I have no idea who I was before I belonged to it. I don't know how old I am. Hell, my name may not even be Dean. My earliest memory is twenty-four years old, which I'm obviously not, and I'm bound to work for Death until the end of time."

Horror grips Sam. "The end of time?"

"I told you I'm alive, right? Well I age, too. My body's gonna die on day... and I'll become just like the other Reapers."

Automated. Silent. Lifeless.

 _No_.

"What? But... you can escape, right? We're... they can't find you now. You could just..."

"...spend my life hiding from the most powerful supernatural entity in the universe? I think I'll pass. My tattoos are a good safeguard, but I can't rely on them forever, and they don't work when I'm in spirit form." Dean sighs. "It's fine, I've made my peace with the idea. It'll be kind of like really dying, the way humans really die, y'know? I'd rather know what I am, or where I come from, than live forever like this."

The back of Sam's mind prickles vaguely. He ignores it.

"What do you remember?"

"Actually, my first memory is weirdly vivid. I woke up in the kitchen of some Italian in Chicago, and there was this old woman Death was using as a vessel back then... I didn't know it was Death at the time, obviously, but I remember something about her eyes being _old_. Older than the body it was occupying, older than the Earth, older than time. I was just a kid with full-blown amnesia and no idea how I got there, so I started to freak out a little, and then she said..." Dean's lips twitch. "... 'have some pizza'."

Sam feels his jaw drop.

"Those were the first words I ever heard. 'Have some pizza'. And then the woman said she was Death, and not to be afraid because she was only there to offer me a job. She said I'd thank her in a few years, because the economy was about to go to shit."

"Oh my god," Sam murmurs.

"Yeah." Dean grins. "Death is pretty cool, actually. Cryptic as hell and so patient I want to rip my hair out sometimes, but cool."

"But... what happened after that?"

"Hm? Oh, well I trained really hard and got the job, didn't I? Apprenticed under the Morrigan and Reaped my first human fourteen years after waking up. Pancreatic cancer." It sounds like a fond memory. "Cussed like a motherfucker, but she followed me eventually. Kept calling me 'jailbait' the whole time; I was so pissed."

Sam can well imagine that a younger, softer Dean would attract 'jailbait' as the _least_ offensive term of endearment.

"And Tessa?"

"Tess joined several years after I woke, right about the time I hit puberty, I think. She didn't remember anything from before, either. Still doesn't, but she spirit-walks same as me."

Sam isn't self-respecting or well-mannered enough not to ask the next question. "So did you two ever...?"

"Me and Tessa?" Dean makes a grossed-out face. "Dude, no, she's like a sister to me."

The nebulous thought that had formed in the back of Sam's mind fades further away.

"Oh."

He can't imagine how life must have been for Dean before Tessa came along; growing up surrounded by those creepy skeletal suits, his only playmate the monstrous guardian of the underworld, the closest father-figure an entity so ancient its existence precedes their planet's origins--and it doesn't seem likely that Death had a lot of free time to raise a little boy.

Lonely, Sam realizes a moment later. The only word he can come up with is terribly, excruciatingly _lonely_. And that, he can relate to very much.

"It never told you who you were before? Why it decided to raise you as a Reaper? Where it found you? How it found you? Why--"

"I asked," Dean interrupts, nodding. "I kept asking over and over and over again. Pestered anyone who would listen, tried to trick them into telling me... nothing worked. All I got was cryptic garbage and a warning."

"A warning?"

"Yeah. Teenage me had a few issues with authority, go figure..." he snorts. "Finally, Death itself had to show up for the reprimand. To this day I'm not entirely sure what it meant."

Sam makes a questioning noise while filing away the previous comment as proof that Death wasn't around much while Dean was growing up.

"It told me to 'stop scratching the wall'."

Puzzled, Sam raises his eyebrows. Dean shrugs.

"Yeah, I got nothing. And we were in the middle of a field, before you ask. I'd suggest it was being metaphorical about me asking too many questions, but I've never heard it use romantic language my whole life."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

For a long moment Sam can't think of anything to say.

Dean clicks his tongue. "So... that's the story. Everything I can do is thanks to the Pale Rider, and I don't even know how it happened but I'm bound to serve it."

"Spirit walking is no easy feat, Dean," Sam says, because it's true and Dean's voice sounded too self-deprecating for his liking.

"Well it isn't any accomplishment on my part. I gotta work to control it, sure, but the raw power is all Death's doing."

"That still sounds like tough work to me."

"Trust me, I was the pimply sixteen-year-old brat driving around in daddy's Porsche for _years_ before I finally got a handle on it."

"The other Reapers don't have bodies, right? So they aren't half-alive, dealing with the shit you have to deal with. Stop putting yourself down."

Dean huffs quietly and shoots Sam a disbelieving look.

"How the hell didn't the world eat you up, kid?"

Sam is taken aback. "What do you mean?"

The look on Dean's face is hard to describe. Harder when the Reaper harrumps and rolls over onto his other side.

"Nothing. You're just... it's a good thing I met you when I did, s'all. Somebody has to look out for you if you're gonna walk around with those puppy-eyes being all trusting and shit."

Something bitter floods Sam's mouth. "I'm not like that."

"You're not?" Dean rolls over to face him again. "What the hell are you doing with me, then?"

He never actually stopped to consider that, but the answer seems rather obvious. "I need you. I have no other choice." It still feels like a lie.

"So this is a marriage of convenience? Ouch." Dean lets out a shaky laugh.

"Yeah well, the romance is dead, Dean. As was I, a couple of days ago."

Dean's laughter is genuine this time, and Sam feels very pleased with himself.

"But... I've actually been meaning to." He has to stop and clear his throat. Dean might make fun of him for it but he still needs to get this next part out. "Um, the reason I'm not dead anymore is you. And I don't think I thanked you for that, what with the archangels and the demons chasing us--"

"You don't have to--"

"Yes I do," Sam says firmly. "It's a little late but I do. So... thanks. For saving my life."

"I didn't really save you, though."

"You brought me back."

"Technically, all I did was _not_ harvest your soul--"

"That still counts, Dean, will you stop being a contrary jerk about it and let me express my gratitude?"

Dean makes an expansive motion with his hands. "Okay, okay. Please express away, I accept all types of communication: verbal, written..." he smirks. "Oral..."

"You're such an idiot."

"I'd say it was no trouble, but as you can see that would be a lie."

" _Goodnight_."

Feeling a little hurt, Sam pointedly turns his back on Dean and pulls the blankets higher up his side.

"Hey, Sam."

Sam doesn't answer.

"Sammy. You're welcome."

After a beat of silence Dean tosses his pillow at him.

"Hey!"

"You'll get over it." Dean tsks. "And, uh... at the risk of officially turning this into a girls-only slumber party, I'd do it again."

"... Do what."

"Bring you back. I'd do it again, you being Heaven and Hell's most wanted and everything."

Sam grabs the pillow and throws it back to Dean.

"Oy, I'm baring my heart to you here!"

"And I'm giving you back your pillow so you can sleep," Sam replies reasonably.

"Oh. Well, we're one more toss away from a pillow fight, so unless you're planning on putting on some lingerie and coming over here so we can do this properly--"

"Go to sleep, Dean."

Dean finally goes quiet.

... And then the pillow thwacks against the back of Sam's head again, and it is _on_.

*

"A cabin in the woods?"

"Yeah."

"Just... any random abandoned cabin?"

"Why not?"

"Because how will we find it? Because it might not really be abandoned, and what if the owner comes back? Because if it really _is_ abandoned then it won't have running water or electricity or worse, wi-fi."

"Dude, your priorities suck."

They checked out of the motel room two hours ago, and stopped at the local diner for a hugely caloric breakfast Sam could never have dreamt up by himself. Then, Dean declared it was time to protect the car. He drove until they left civilization behind, parked by the side of the road (Dean is big on driving, apparently; says Sam doesn't give the car the TLC it deserves) and here they are: one can of spray paint each and arguing over their next move.

"I want to go back to Riverside," Sam says. "My car will still be where I left it when Azazel took me, I'm sure of it. I need to get my laptop back, and my weapons, my notes..."

"Careful with that Devil's trap, dude, the edges are--"

"My edges are fine." He double-checks them just in case, but the pentagram looks just as it should. "I've been drawing these for a while without you, okay?"

"You had a hunting hiatus that lasted a decade and you've spent two years teaching yourself," Dean says, and finishes his own Death-ward under the car hood with a flourish. "Riverside is miles away, man; why do you need your stuff back anyway? We can get new clothes cheap, and I've stashed weapons in ten different cities for emergency restocking."

"My notes--"

"You've got me now; you don't need notes."

"You don't know _everything_ , Dean. There's years worth of research in that notebook."

" _Two_ years," Dean mutters.

"Yeah, and the demon that killed everyone I ever loved is walking the earth as we speak," Sam snaps. "I need the information back; I collected all the sightings, tips, newspaper articles, tracking spells... and I don't remember it all, _can't_ remember it all, I need--"

" _Fine_ , Jesus. No need to break out the puppy-eyes, man, that's just mean."

"I... really? We can go?"

"Yeah. You need it so bad, we'll go get your stupid laptop and your stupid notes." Dean rolls his eyes and shuts the hood. "But in an angel-proof car with demon-repelling amulets, hex bags and at least three cloaking sigils to keep us hidden from my boss."

Sam smiles, pleased at Dean's acquiescence. "I like paranoid-you."

"Shut up."

They haven't actually stopped to talk about the big picture. Jake's had three days to open the gates of hell and so far the news has failed to report any of the omens or disturbances that Sam would expect to come with the arrival of thousands of demons on Earth. Sam and Dean's next move is logically to gather their bearings and figure out when and where it's happening, or at least how they can stop it, but they haven't discussed that at all. They haven't had the conversation where Sam said " _I have to do this; I have to kill him_ ," and Dean said " _Yeah, okay man, I'm with you_ ," or even the one where Sam stopped to ask for Dean's help.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Mhm?"

Sam opens his mouth to try and thank Dean again in as much of an underhanded way as possible when the distant roar of an engine cuts him off.

They're parked on the side of a wide-open road that had been deserted up until a few seconds ago. Sam can't help thinking that the spray-paint, the two candles Dean lit, the hex bags and the sigils will look an awful lot like daytime devil-worship to a casual passer-by.

He looks at Dean, panicky, but Dean's grinning.

"Quick, let's pretend to make out against the hood so they don't notice the Satanism!"

He slides onto the car with laughter in his eyes and Sam laughs, too, suddenly much more at ease. "You wish."

Dean spreads his legs wide so his feet hang off the chassis, and his smile takes a turn for the wicked.

Sam's laughter dies.

"I think you're the one who wishes, Sammy," Dean says, drawing one knee up slowly, theatrically, stretching the fabric of his jeans over his crotch obscenely and always, always playing that line between joking and flirting in order to drive Sam nuts.

The distant rumble has become a loud roar, which is coming from an approaching motorcycle. And it's slowing down.

The woman driving it isn't wearing a helmet, and she looks anxious as she parks hastily near them.

"Hi!" she says, waving quickly and dismounting. "Excuse me, hello, I'm so sorry to, uh, intrude..."

Dean slides off the hood and lands on his feet like a cat. He smiles brightly at her and manages to look both charming and sleazy. "Not intruding, miss. Everything okay?"

She's very pretty. Short and compact, with generous curves, snug leather jacket and even snugger jeans.

"Actually, no," she says apologetically. "I was supposed to find you _hours_ ago and my superiors won't be happy."

Neither Sam nor Dean has time to react before her left hand shoots out and she immobilizes them.

"That's better."

Her eyes flood black.

"Man, you two pulled every freaking trick in the book, huh? I had to do this the _human_ way. Literally; I called people on phones, drove around for ages... how do you have the patience for that?"

Sam tries to speak but she tut-tuts, and even though he can shape the words no sound comes out.

"It's an honor, your unholyness, but I can't have you exorcising me just yet. Smart of you to try, though," she smiles appraisingly. "Shame you and Jake can't just co-captain our team."

Her gaze lands on Dean next.

"Aren't you just the oddest one out?" A sigh. "We've been instructed not to harm you, but I really don't see why. I mean, what's one earthbound Reaper on the loose? Who cares, right?"

"I care."

Suddenly there are half a dozen more demons among them.

Sam's heart sinks as their chances of escape dwindle to practically nothing. This group is clearly organized; all black-eyed, and all possessing what looks to be a stereotypical biker gang... with one notable exception. The one who spoke chose the body of a middle-aged woman with nut-brown skin and a conservative country-club look about her. Maybe her vessel once had kind dark eyes, but the demon inside them makes the irises flicker a sickly bubblegum pink.

"Mephisto! I got them!"

"I can see that," she says, rolling her eyes. "But pretty boy number two is not just any Reaper, you idiot." She walks up to her subordinate in pastel-blue Mary Janes, her eyes roving from Sam to Dean then back again. "He has a body and he happens to be important to our friends on the top floor. If the angels are interested in something, dear, then _we_ make sure we get to it first. That's like, rule one of being a demon."

Sam looks at Dean, who is staring up at the sky with a slight frown of concentration.

If this demon is really Mephistopheles they are screwed in fifty-six different ways.

"Look, I got them okay? Both of them." The demon that drove in crosses her arms under her chest defensively. "That's what matters."

" _Meg_ decides what matters," Mephisto snaps. "And I report to her, not you. If you'd gotten here ten minutes later they'd have already escaped in that goddamn car and disappeared without a trace, impossible to find. So be glad luck was on your side today."

She turns to Sam with a small smile.

"I'm very pleased that's not what happened, though," she says. "You've definitely been a fucking nightmare to locate, but I want you to understand that we're your allies, not your enemies, okay? I get that the idea is gonna be hard to chug down at first, but all you have to do is give in. It's going to happen eventually, Sam. It's in your nature."

Sam stares at her, speechless even without the use of his vocal chords.

She stares back for a long moment until a shadow of disappointment clouds her features.

"We need to move them," she calls, turning away. "She'll be there soon and you know she hates to be kept waiting."

The burly men in black leather move instantly at her command, kicking over candles and scattering Sam and Dean's carefully arranged hex bags. They don't get too close to the car, though.

The woman in the motorbike lowers her arm and Sam feels the phantom force holding his muscles in place slacken. He's barely regained his balance, however, before two of the men wrap meaty arms around him to hold him in place, and he sees Dean get the same treatment. They briefly exchange a look that says struggling isn't worth it just now.

"Azazel is dying to talk to you again, Sam," Mephisto says. "Especially since you went to all the trouble of seducing yourself a Reaper of souls rather than staying dead."

Her eyes flash.

"Don't worry, I think he liked that. He loves a bit of spunk. Now," she smiles. "Watch and learn, Sammy. Soon it'll be you doing these tricks."

Before Sam can protest the nickname he's slamming the soles of his feet on a hard stone floor.

They are in a huge room that might have once been a cellar. It’s dark, dank and empty but the slightly bitter scent of wine remains, as do the moist walls and terrible lighting. A set of eerily polished chains dangle from a far corner, and Sam's hair stands on end. His recurring nightmares are too close to something like this. He doesn't like being held down, hates the visual threat implicit in this place.

"A sex-torture dungeon?" Dean snorts loudly, but his gaze flickers to Sam with worry. "Really? Bit of a cliché, wouldn't you--"

"I'm a fan of the classics," Mephisto interrupts. "Although judging by the look on your face, Sam... you aren't."

Dammit.

Motorcycle girl looks slightly put-out. "You're afraid of some light bondage? That doesn't bode well for our alleged fearless leader, does it?"

"It doesn't mean anything," one of the men holding Dean mutters. "Sam is all potential right now. Wait and see."

The one on Sam's right nods and grips Sam's arm tighter. He's huge; as tall as Sam and twice as wide. "And if he's weak, he'll break, and we can ask to suck on his bone marrow as compensation."

"Like hell," Dean snarls. "No one is hurting Sam, okay?"

There's a noise between a coo and an 'aww' from Mephisto.

"You two are just too much," she says with relish. And then; "Chain Sammy up."

Sam can't help struggling this time; he bucks and writhes and fights them throughout, but in the end Mephisto waves a hand and he's paralyzed again, being dragged all the way down until the cold hard manacles clunk shut around his wrists.

He hates it. Hates hates hates how claustrophobic and tied down he feels; his stomach rolls with nausea.

"Are you _that_ scared of him?" Dean yells. "Let him go!"

Mephisto cocks her head to the side.

"Dean, Dean... poor bitty Dean," she sighs. "Talk about an over-invested third party. But I suppose it makes sense... One of a handful of your kind, always so alone, so _lonely_."

Dean stills suddenly.

"All that heart and all that love with no one to give it to your whole life." She advances on him, shoes pattering softly against the stone. "A protector miscast in the role of Reaper. And then..." she has to stand on tiptoe to meet Dean's gaze. Sam can barely hear her now, worse because of the blood rushing past his ears. "Then along came Sam. The hunter who wouldn't die. Yin to your yang, Bonnie to your Clyde, in a way." Her neon-sickly eyes shine in the low light. "It's like a fairytale, isn't it?"

And then her voice drops lower and Sam doesn’t catch what she says.

Dean’s reply is quite audible, though.

"I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about," he snaps. “Psycho bitch.”

Mephisto's face twists into a furious grimace.

"You'd better watch that mouth of yours, Reaper," she says sharply. "It's damn pretty to look at but it's gonna get you in a world of trouble if you don't keep it clean."

She clicks her fingers and the two demons holding Dean step away from him.

"I _hate_ that term."

Another movement and before Dean can draw breath he's doubling over, choking.

"Dean!" Sam cries, lurching forward, but the chains rattle and hold him in place. "No, what are you doing to him-- _stop_!"

He twists and yanks at the bindings, desperate to get to his Reaper.

Mephisto laughs. Dean gasps and gurgles, and suddenly he starts coughing up thick white foam.

"Dean!"

Dean is red-faced and braced on all fours, gagging and retching as the bubbles continue to flow from his mouth.

"Stop it!" Sam shouts.

Biker girl is laughing in the background.

Sam wrenches hard again and suddenly he's stumbling, unfettered. He’s free.

" _Enough_."

His voice comes out strange, thick as though it's laced with more than anger. Dean stops throwing up soap and wheezes in a few desperate gulps of air.

Mephisto raises her hands in surrender, her eyes wide.

"I'm sorry," she says, to Sam's utter shock.

It's only then that he glances around and realizes the two goons who'd been hovering near him have been blown clear across the room. The chains on the wall are cracked open and _smoking_.

What just... did he do that?

"I... please. It was just a joke, I wasn't going to kill him. Please, Sam."

Sam blinks, suddenly unsure of himself and of the position he's just put them both in. Mephisto sounds scared, and a thorny, soot-blackened part of Sam is snarling: _good, if she hurts Dean she has reason to be_.

"Sam. Dean. You prayed for me?"

Oh thank _God_. Sam's never been more relieved in his entire life.

Dean looks much less surprised than him at Castiel's sudden appearance in the middle of the room.

"Yeah," he spits out, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Kill her. Kill them all."

The angel never questions Dean's order, just obeys. He blinks in and out of existence, appearing next to a demon long enough to place a hand over its face and implode it in a burst of blue-white light, twin flares coming out of the vessel's eyes as a horrifying burned smell reaches Sam's nostrils.

There are seven corpses on the floor by the end of it. Sam doesn't spare them a look; he hurries over to Dean's side and helps prop him up.

"Sammy," Dean wheezes, eyes red and puffy. "You okay?"

"Me? I'm _fine_ ," Sam breathes, furious and worried and shaking slightly. "Dammit Dean, are _you_ okay?"

He runs fretful hands over his Reaper to check for himself regardless of Dean's actual answer.

"Yeah." Surprisingly, Dean lets himself be manhandled and petted without protest. "You?"

"We covered me," Sam reminds him. "Your goddamn big mouth, I swear to God..."

Dean grimaces, full lips twisting. "Sorry. I know that was dumb."

"Damn right it was." Sam's hands are still shaking too much for him to hope Dean hasn't noticed. It's just that Dean has become the one person he... Sam doesn't know what he'd have done if he was suddenly left alone again, but the thought of Dean leaving him makes a painful knot tighten in his chest.

He couldn’t go on without Dean. He’d rather have this crazy guy beside him than... than...

"Fuck," he bites out. The realization is hitting him like a slow-motion sucker-punch to the stomach.

Given a choice between Dean and revenge... Sam’s not so sure of which one he’d settle for. And considering the fact that up until now he'd been sure that revenge was his only reason for being alive...

 _Fuck_.

"I'm okay, Sammy." Dean's hands are in his hair, cradling his head in callused fingers. "I'm fine." His eyes rove over Sam's features worriedly. "Got some free teeth-cleaning for my troubles, see?"

He bares his teeth, jaw jutting out, and Sam hates the dorky idiot so much his chest is going to crack open.

"You..."

Sam tightens his grip on Dean's shirt and leans in, their hot breaths mingling in the shrinking space between their mouths.

Castiel coughs.

Dean pulls back reluctantly, and when he looks at Sam his eyes are dark.

"What?" he growls, not looking away.

"I will not judge," the angel says. "It is not my place, and the bond between your souls is certainly unique in its--"

"Are you kidding me?" Dean snorts, swinging around to stare the angel down. His hand slips from Sam's hair and Sam has to hate Castiel a little bit for that.

"Joking is not in my nature."

Sam decides to take action before Dean decides to give the angel a piece of his mind. And Mephistopheles had said 'Meg' would be here any second.

"Can you take us back to the car, Castiel?" he says.

"Yes."

The angel walks over to them and reaches out to lay a finger on each of their foreheads.

Sam closes his eyes and when he opens them again he's crouched down on the dirt, Dean is still next to him, and they are back where they were just a few moments ago. The sun has just risen higher in the sky, bathing them in sharp bright light.

"Perfect," Dean says, standing up and dusting off his jeans. "I feel like I won't poop for a week, but that was still pretty effective. Public transport to get back here would have been a bitch."

He pauses mid-motion and slowly turns to look at Castiel.

"You can go now."

"If Meg is hunting you, you would be wise to ally with me."

"Oh my god, get over yourself..."

"Castiel, please," Sam says over Dean. "You have to understand why Dean and I need to do this alone."

The angel looks at him for a long moment, and he doesn't look happy.

"You act as if you have a choice, boy."

Dean shifts forward slightly, so he’s standing between Castiel and Sam. "Get in the car, Sammy."

"What about you?"

"Just do it."

"No," the angel rasps, and his hand shoots out towards Sam; palm up. "That would not be wise, Sam."

"I'm not leaving you," Sam says to Dean, ignoring Castiel completely.

"Get in the goddamn car _now_."

But Castiel slams the doors of the Impala shut with a flick or his fingers. "Listen to me, both of you; Azazel has been informed that Sam is alive and that is the only reason he has not opened the gates yet."

"What?"

"He must favor you over Jake for some reason or he wants to eliminate you as a threat to Jake's claim; either way once he finds out where you are every demon under his command will be after you both. Do you understand?"

"Do _you_ understand that your presence is a holy pain in my ass?" Dean snaps. "You're a beacon of power, you're basically pointing a finger at our location!"

"If I am here to protect you, you need not fear--"

"That's exactly what we want to avoid! We'll survive by staying under the radar, not by drawing attention to ourselves."

Sam slowly draws the knife from his pocket.

"The demons want you dead, Dean, and they _will_ take Sam away from you in the manner most likely to ensure that outcome."

"Your intel is out of date, pal," Dean says. "They said I was not to be harmed."

"Not when it risked triggering Sam's powers, no. But the final objective is to get you out of the way, using whatever means necessary. They do not want Sam to have any emotional attachments, that has been one of the main requirements all along." He nods at Sam. "You see that, don't you Sam?"

Sam's eyes flicker to Dean, who briefly meets them before looking away.

"Fine, whatever. I'm a Reaper," Dean says. "I can't really die."

Castiel cocks his head.

"Of course you can die. And your soul is heaven-bound; you would never see your brother again."

Sam's arm stills.

Dean's... what?

"You mean my sister," Dean says, uncertainly.

The angel frowns. "No, I mean your brother. The reason every Reaper not on duty is currently scouring the country for your souls."

Something cold and sharp stabs Sam in the gut.

_My earliest memory is twenty-four years old, which I'm obviously not..._

"I realize you belong to the Pale Rider now, but I was under the impression that human children have some memory of their early childhoods."

Dean's eyes go huge.

"I was human?"

_I have no idea who I was before I belonged to it..._

Castiel is starting to look more confused than angry. "Why are you speaking in past tense?"

"I had a brother?" Dean says in a rough voice. "I had family?"

"You didn't know." The angel steps toward Dean, who moves back instinctually.

"I-I don't remember anything."

_I woke up in the kitchen of some Italian in Chicago... I was just a kid..._

"You forsook your own kind, went against the natural order, disobeyed the most powerful entity in the universe..." Castiel looks at Sam and his expression is full of surprise. It might be the most emotion Sam has seen on that face. "You gave up everything for this boy. And you did not know?"

"You make it sound so damn dramatic," Dean says shakily. "All I did was quit without my two-weeks notice. Reaping was my job, not what I am. I'm..." But he spends a beat too long thinking of his answer.

"You do not know what you are," Castiel says, not unkindly. "And you did all that you did for Sam without knowing what he is, either. Who he is."

Sam's knees are weak.

"What am I?" he manages.

"You're Samuel Winchester," the angel answers. "And Dean Winchester is your brother."

Holy.

Fuck.

They both half-turn to look at each other and stop.

"... What."

"Death took custody of your soul the night Azazel murdered your mother. Your parents were John and Mary Winchester."

"No fucking way."

Castiel frowns at Dean. "I assure you, it is the truth."

"No it isn't," Dean snaps. "Sam's not my... Sam's just my... my _friend_ , we're just--"

But the word jars, it always did, and Sam's shaking with how much sense it's all starting to make.

"And what are the odds of us meeting, anyway? Even if it was true, which it _isn't_ , how much of a coincidence would it be?"

"Your assignation to Sam was anything but a coincidence, Dean."

"It's... what?" He finally looks at Sam, but this, Sam notices on his peripheral vision because he can't bring himself to meet the gaze.

He feels... God, he doesn't even know. But there's a sickening sensation like... like something finally slotting into place.

"Death knows your last name, Dean. It has always known.”

“But how?” Sam manages to articulate. “ _How_?”

“I am not familiar with the details. Clearly I was wrong in thinking _you_ might be.”

“Or you’re lying,” Dean says. He’s moving toward Sam, Sam can sense it, but he’s paralyzed and this time there’s no demonic force holding him still.

“I am not lying. And I—what are you doing.”

He’s at Sam’s side and Sam finally forces his head to turn, to look at his—to look at Dean.

Such a bright, clear green. Sam’s eyes are nothing like that.

“Sam?” Dean breathes. His voice wobbles, thready and dramatic and...

His hand wraps around the collar of Sam’s shirt.

Sam forgets how to draw air into his lungs. He might choke on his own saliva while he’s at it.

“De—“

“ _Yippee-ki-yay_ motherfucker.”

Dean tugs down suddenly and Sam’s shirt literally rips open, and then there’s a wet hand splaying on his chest and a blast of light.

*

"So... pie?"

"For dinner?"

"We don't have any more food left, princess."

"Then let's go get some."

"And pay for it with our young nubile bodies? We don't have any money left, either."

In the two days it took them to get to Riverside, Iowa and find Sam's abandoned car, they haven't had a proper conversation.

Sam tried-- _and if you quote your precious little angel again I swear to God I'm gonna punch your stupid glasses off your stupid face because he was obviously_ lying--

Once.

"I've been getting by with credit fraud," Sam says, tentatively lowering his laptop lid. It's still recharging and this motel's wi-fi is terrible, but he's just happy to have it back.

"Credit fraud?"

"I have a couple of accounts that I siphon off money to. Hacking, mostly. I'm not an expert, but through some basic IP re-routing I've been able to stay under the radar with online banking cheats that are easier than--"

"See how there's _no way_ we're related?" Dean explodes suddenly.

Sam freezes.

"We don't look anything alike! You're some sort of geek-action-man-Ken doll mashup and I'm... I'm just... nothing like you."

Well. At least he's talking about it.

"Why would Castiel lie about something like that?"

"He wants my body," Dean says darkly. "Why wouldn't he lie about it."

"Dean, think about this. Demons messing with the truth I'd get, that's just their M.O., but him?"

Sam wishes he were the sort of person who could wear his heart on his sleeve the way Dean does, and just express himself freely. He's as upset about this as Dean is; as panicked and shaken and helpless, but Dean has clearly decided to go with blind denial here and _one_ of them needs to be reasonable (so Sam focuses on the pain and confusion that are easier to deal with; those which come from someone else).

"I had a brother called Dean," he forces out.

It's harder to say than he expected. Reconciling the two Deans in his head has proven to be a nauseatingly easy process for the past forty-eight hours, and he's not sure whether the common name is enough to account for how much overlap the concepts already had in his mind.

"When he was four, he died saving my life. My... mom passed as well. I grew up on the road with my dad. You know that. I... I don't know how you became what you are, or how you're even alive, but I'm pretty sure your age fits. Your name."

It's with a flush of embarrassment that Sam realizes his eyes are prickling with unshed tears.

"Dean, you can't remember anything about before, but what if you _were_ human? That's... Death took you in without an explanation, but what if this is it? Castiel had no reason to mess with us. It's too much of a coincidence."

Dean is looking at him as though transfixed.

"And this explains why you saved me," Sam adds. That's something he'd been wrestling with since Dean brought him back, but after Castiel's revelation he's felt like it was finally starting to make sense.

"What?"

"I didn't get it. Hell, you didn't get it either, remember? The whole thing was weird." _Oh god the kiss the goddamn kiss he's been trying so hard to block out these past two days_. "You said yourself that you didn't know why you did it. But if we really are related then... maybe you recognized that on some level, or my soul resonated with you in some way that wouldn't let you Reap--"

Dean _laughs_. He stands from his spot at the foot of the bed and laughs in Sam's face.

“Oh, this is just too good.” He claps his hands together and pretends to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. "This is just precious."

Sam blinks up at him, thrown off by the absolute last reaction he expected. He adjusts his glasses nervously.

"What?"

"You are something else, kid.” He runs a hand over his short hair. “You think that's why I brought you back? Some bullshit subconscious brotherly bond?" The last two words sound like poison. "Man, what kind of saint do you take me for?"

"I-I--"

"I'm _nothing_ like Cas' haloed brethren, Sammy; there was nothing remotely pure about it. Our souls didn't resonate or whatever-the-fuck."

Sam flinches. He feels very small all of a sudden. Dean is standing over him and Sam feels hurt and somehow miniscule.

But then Dean goes on: "I brought you back because I wanted to. Because I couldn't stand the thought of going on without your overgrown ass to watch out for. Because your stupid face was the reason I looked forward to Reaping every day, even though I knew the best thing for you would be for us to never see each other again."

He actually looks bitterly disappointed.

"I don't know who the hell you think I am, but it was selfish, Sam. Just... selfish."

"Dean..."

Sam doesn't even know what to say. His chest feels caved in.

"Like I said," Dean mutters, clicking his tongue. "Naive puppy, that's what you--"

He cuts off with a ' _humph_ ' when Sam shoves at him, hard enough that he falls back onto the bed.

"Stop. Saying that. You..." He has the violent urge to full-body-tackle the idiot and try to rip him apart. Sam's broken and scarred and lathered in darkness, and Dean may think Sam has the wrong measure of him but if so then this goes both ways because there is nothing good left in Sam, the last good thing he ever dared to reach out for got close enough to burn. "Dammit, Dean, you..."

Dean's gaze is dark and his chest is heaving lightly, and it's not just Sam who feels this thing, it isn't. This thing that remained light and good for all of a year before proximity to Sam twisted and ruined it, turned it into a sick want by shifting around the context of what they could be to each other. This thing that reeks of sex and violence between them right now.

"I...?"

But this is the one truth Sam can't bring himself to voice. A silent, tense acknowledgement is all he can handle, but speaking his mind right now is beyond him. Jesus Christ, that might be his _brother_ he's... he wants to...

“Just... think about it. Think about what Castiel said. Doesn't it feel like the truth?"

"No,” Dean snaps immediately. Then he seems to relent. “I don’t know. I mean... shit.”

He draws his legs in so they aren’t splayed quite so badly.

Sam doesn’t react in any visible way. He hadn't even noticed Dean's position. Really.

“You know there’s one way of finding out for real, right?”

“Hm?”

“We have someone we can actually ask.”

It takes Sam a moment to organize his thoughts and realize what Dean is implying. No way. “Are you talking about _Death_?”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah.”

“You want to summon Death.”

“There’s a ritual. I don’t really know how it goes, but I’ve heard rumors. We could look it up. It'll know, and maybe I can finally find out who I really am. Maybe...”

“Maybe it’ll tell us to go to hell?”

Dean shakes his head. “Won’t be able to. It’s a binding ritual.”

“ _You want to_ trap _Death_?”

“Look, I’ve spent my whole life in the dark,” Dean says harshly, not looking at him. “Once, just this fucking once, I want answers. I want... I deserve to know the truth about who I am, Sammy.”

His tone is pleading, and Sam can’t say no. He’s dying to know, and he wants that look off Dean’s face.

“Where do we start?”

“We need help for this. Professional help." Dean’s mouth curves up in a tentative smile. "You made some friends over the past year, right?”

*

“Bobby, this is Dean. Dean, Bobby.”

Bobby shakes Dean’s hand for a little bit longer than common courtesy would dictate, and judging by the whiteness of their knuckles, that’s one unusually tight grip.

“Nice to meet you, Dean. Sam here tells me you two met hunting?”

When Sam realizes what the man is doing (what he thinks is going on here) he’s torn between mortification and bursting into hysterical peals of laughter.

“Yes, sir. I basically saved his sorry ass.” Dean grins weakly, but Bobby doesn't crack a smile.

Sam never said they were together, not like _that_. He never even implied it, he just called ahead and mentioned he wasn’t alone. Oh god. And Dean looks very obviously nervous and unsure and he keeps glancing at Sam like he expects Sam to help him out but... _how_.

“Did you? Sam may be relatively new to the job but he’s one of the best hunters out there. Very... independent.”

Dean nods. “Yeah. Uh... we had a bit of a rocky start, but turns out we make a pretty good team.”

“Ellen and Will are on their way here,” Bobby tells Sam. It sounds weirdly like a threat, and Dean’s eyes go a little wide. “I think Jo may make it in a couple of days, too; she’s been hunting a Tulpa up in Washington State but I got an ‘all good’ call a couple-a’ hours ago. Tamara and Isaac are in Brazil, so it’s a no from them, but—“

“That’s—no, it’s fine,” Sam says. “I just need a couple of days in your library and maybe a few pointers on some... stuff. You really didn’t need to get the Harvelles to come all the way.”

“I never had to ask, dumbass.” Bobby rolls his eyes. “This is the first time we’ve known where you’ll be in advance for _months_. Ellen even offered to help you research, and you know how much she hates hitting the books.”

Sam does, and that’s a big gesture on Ellen’s part.

“So... you gonna tell me what’s going on, Sam? Not that I wasn’t happy you called; we never hear from you as often as we’d like, you know that, but...” he shrugs, smiles a little. “Well, you’ve never asked us for help before. Ever.”

Sam adjusts his glasses. “I know. And I’m sorry about the short notice—“

“Don’t apologize. I’m glad you did.” Bobby's smile widens and he huffs something of a contented sigh. “Finally.”

“Well, I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah,” Dean pipes in. “Thanks.”

“You’ll find that there’s a whole bunch of us who look out for this boy,” Bobby says pointedly. This is literally the most bizarre thing that has ever happened to Sam (and he _died_ once).

“I’m... that’s good to hear, actually.” Wait, _what_? Sam turns to gape at Dean, who suddenly seems to be taking this seriously. And the damn asshole has the nerve to look heartbreakingly _sincere_. "Sam's an idiot, so it's great that he has you guys to keep him on the straight and narrow."

“Yeah, well. He’s well liked. Anything were to threaten his wellbeing, be it emotional or physical, the outcome would be damn bleak, is all I’m sayin’.”

And with that, Bobby motions for them to drop their bags and follow him to the kitchen.

“Coffee?”

Dean seems to be deep in thought, so Sam says: “Yes, thanks, Bobby.” And when Bobby’s back is to them he shoves at Dean, hard.

Dean stares up at him. “What?" he hisses. "I've never done the meet the parents before!"

“Jesus, this is _so fucked up_.”

They stare at each other and yes, it is beyond fucked up but Sam's chest is weirdly light, and he might actually be leaning towards the hysterical laughter after all.

*

Bobby thinks they are officially insane, but agrees to help out if he can. Of course, the extremely censored version of the story he gets is that they need to summon the Pale Rider because Sam has reason to believe Death will help him kill Azazel. They skip the bits with Sam actually dying, Dean’s old job, Castiel, the demon blood, and their potential... relationship.

“Well, then you can start first thing tomorrow. I might have a couple of ideas already, I’ll prepare the texts for you tonight. Sam, you remember where my spare room is, right?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Bobby. Really.”

As usual, Bobby’s answer to the gratitude is an eye-roll.

Sam’s about to head upstairs with his stuff when he realizes that Dean is left standing in the middle of the living room, backpack in hand and a supremely uncomfortable look on his face.

“Uh. Should I...?”

“You can take my couch, son,” Bobby says firmly.

Dean’s jaw drops and this time Sam can’t hold back a snort.

“Sorry Sam, my roof, my rules—“

“It’s fine,” Sam says hurriedly, grinning. “Oh my god, it’s _fine_ , Bobby.” Dean is still standing there with a half-horrified, half-incredulous look and it’s hilarious, it has to be, because if it’s not hilarious it’s very _very_ sick.

“Oh. Well... good.” Bobby is staring at Sam a little strangely.

Sam tries to school his expression into something more serious, but it’s clearly too late. And then, for some reason, Bobby looks back to Dean and nods. Like he’s finally settled on something. Like he _approves_.

Dean looks more deer-in-the-headlights than ever, so when Bobby’s not looking, Sam mouths: “ _Good night, sweetheart_ ,” at him.

Because fuck it; it’s taken two years, an unlikely amount of near-death experiences and a whole lot of potential incest, but he’s finally gotten to have the last word.

*

Ellen and Will arrive the next day just as Bobby said they would, and she grips Dean's hand so hard he actually whimpers.

Sam pretends not to notice and goes back to his book.

They've set up shop in the living room. Bobby had suggested his downstairs bunker where most of his books are in the first place, but Dean said no before Sam even had to come up with an excuse to avoid it.

After the appropriate introductions have been made and a similar explanation has been given to the Harvelles regarding their plan, Ellen hauls Sam to the kitchen with the excuse of needing coffee and essentially corners him.

"You sure about this kid, Sam?"

Sam blanches. "Uh... what do you--"

"He's prettier'n my daughter, I'll give you that, but do you _trust_ him?"

Dean's not here to hear it, but Sam thinks he'd appreciate his response all the same. "With my life."

Ellen nods. "Good."

"We're not... together, though."

She raises her eyebrows like she's surprised but believes him, which is a relief, frankly. "Really?"

"Bobby just kind of assumed... but it's not like that. We're just friends."

"Oh. Well... I like how he looks at you." She smiles a little. "I've wanted that for you for a while now, Sam."

"It's not like that," Sam repeats, because there's no point torturing himself over what might have happened if they lived in another world where Dean was completely human and Sam never had a brother.

"Okay." Ellen's arm does a weird twitchy thing, and after an awkward second of hesitation she ends up putting her hand all the way up on Sam's shoulder. "But I'm glad you're not alone anymore." The solemnity lasts for about a second before she adds, gruff; "It was freaking depressing as shit to think about."

Sam snorts. "Thanks. I think."

"Yeah, yeah. C'mon, let's go back to hunting the most powerful supernatural creature in existence."

They break for lunch and Sam excuses himself after to shower and officially remove his bandages for the last time. The giant mark Dean burned into his chest looks to be a permanent fixture, but it's much prettier than the scars on his back so he figures it could be worse. His right palm is a bit of a mess but it's clean and starting to smooth out, and his shoulder is also much better.

All in all, Sam thinks in front of the foggy mirror... it's not just that it could be worse, it used to _be_ a lot worse. He'd avoided looking at himself a lot that first year, but he knows why he got the shifty stares he did when walking down the street, why he had to take special care if he needed to talk to a witness.

"Sam? You in there?"

He startles, then immediately remembers what happened the last time he and Dean talked through a bathroom door. A bolt of arousal shoots through him, making his stomach flip. Shit shit _shit_.

"Yeah."

There's no answer for a while and Sam gingerly drops his towel and reaches for his underwear. Bobby let them do laundry and everything smells nice and clean, but he left his pants in his room along with his glasses.

"Uh... how're you healin' up?"

"Fine." He slides into his boxers and then his undershirt. "S'looking good."

There's a weird noise from outside, and maybe Dean says " _I'll bet_ ," very quietly, or maybe Sam is going crazy again.

"Did you say something?"

"Nope," Dean says immediately. "I'm gonna be downstairs if you need me. I think Bobby wants to threaten me some more now that you're out of earshot."

"Oh, about that--"

"S'fine, I can handle him. Ellen's the one who scares the living crap outta me."

Sam chuckles and opens the door.

Dean's in a pair of too-big jeans Bobby lent him because they never did get to one of his safe-houses, and his shirt is a worn red plaid number. He's so, so stupidly attractive it kind of blows Sam's mind.

"H-hey," Dean says hoarsely.

Without his glasses Sam can't see the freckles individually, but he still _knows they're there_.

"Hey."

The silence is threatening to become charged when water drips from Sam's fringe into his eye and he twitches in a way that makes Dean laugh.

"I'll be right down," Sam says, wiping his face.

"Yeah, man." Dean is smiling at the ground, eyes crinkling. He claps a hand to Sam's bare shoulder as he passes him to head for the stairs.

*

Bobby's the one who finds it in the end.

"Gotcha!" he says suddenly in the dead silence. They all jump a little, and Sam instinctually looks at Dean (and is a little unnerved that that was Dean's first response too). "I knew this could be it."

"Thank _God_ ," Jo says with feeling, shutting her book. She arrived two hours ago and, after enduring her parent's attentions for a few minutes, sat herself on the carpeted floor next to Dean with a simple _'Howdy_ '. Sam really appreciated that at first. Not so much once Dean charmed her into laughing and she punched him in the shoulder (she doesn't know what it means, to be able to touch Dean).

"You found a ritual?"

"I got the entire damn _recipe_ , kid." He doesn't look up from the page he's reading but his eyebrows shoot up. "Damn."

"What?"

They all move to crowd around him and read over his shoulder.

"One of the ingredients is an _act_ of _God_?" Jo reads.

"Three angel feathers?" Will says.

"The blood of a first son..."

"Tears shed for lost love, _yeesh_."

"Forget the tears, we need an act of God, _crystallized forever_. How the fuck do we crystallize--"

"All right, settle down," Bobby says. "I'm pretty sure I've got most of this stuff--"

"You've got a bunch of angel feathers at hand, Bobby?" Ellen snorts. "'Cause something tells me those are gonna be a bitch to get a hold of."

Sam and Dean exchange a glance.

"We'll take care of those," Dean says. "I, uhm... I know some people."

Bobby shoots him a skeptical look but doesn't comment. "Okay, the main problem is definitely this magical God-crystal thing. I was an only son, so we're good for the blood--"

"Maybe not, though," Will interrupts, hand scratching at his blond hair. "It's _first_ son, as in first of more than one, I think."

"I agree," Ellen says. "But Will's an only child too."

They all turn to stare at Dean. Right, because they think Sam was John's only offspring.

"I'm..." Dean looks a bit panicked. "I think--I might be a first son."

Jo snorts. "You _might_ be?"

Dean glares at her. "It's complicated. I was adopted."

She looks immediately mollified, and puts a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Sam likes Jo. Sort of. He's always liked the Harvelles even though he's never understood where their protectiveness over him comes from... but right now? He's not exactly Jo's number one fan.

"Okay. Back to the act of God, then."

They all seem to be floundering a bit at that one. There's a brief moment where Dean's overly expressive face takes a turn Sam _knows_ is R-rated and Dean catches him looking and they have to look away from each other.

A discussion on what constitutes 'an act of God' has the small group voicing increasingly far-fetched ideas until Jo is arguing heatedly that science accounts for most of what would be considered 'godly' a thousand years ago and suddenly Sam gets it.

"Wait, what if we're not being literal enough?"

"Literal? Sam, you know most lore is ninety-percent metaphor, right...?"

"No, listen, think about it; an act of God, crystallized forever. What if it's an actual crystal?"

"What are you--"

"Fulgurite!"

"Fulu-what now?"

But Sam's convinced. "Fulgurite is crystallized lightning. When lightning strikes sand a certain way it forms an instant mineral. Doesn't matter that we know what really causes lightning, it would definitely be considered an act of God then."

"Genius," Dean says, wide-eyed. "You're an actual genius."

Sam huffs and looks away in order to hide the smile tugging at his mouth, but he ends up facing Bobby, Ellen and Will, who all look disconcertingly emotional about it.

*

There are only five items that Bobby doesn't have in stock.

_1\. A fragment of a shifter's mask_

"Aw, gross."

"It's the sewer system, Dean, what were you expecting?"

"No, I meant your face."

"Ha. Ha."

Dean grins. "You realize 'mask' means the shed skin, right? As in gloopy, disgusting, left-behind quasi-human?"

"Yes, thanks for the reminder."

They actually killed the shifter earlier, but the skin it's wearing doesn't count; something Bobby explained with a pained and sympathetic look. So, having realized its lair is probably underground, this is what they have to look forward to for the foreseeable future.

Suddenly Sam's hip starts vibrating and he panics for about two seconds before realizing it's just his cell phone.

"Ellen?"

"Any luck yet? I'm in a no-parking zone."

"Not yet, sorry. We'll call as soon as we have it."

It took a day and a half plus every one of Bobby's contacts to find the potential shifter hunt, and Ellen was the one who drove them the five hours it took to get to the town.

"Okay. Tell Dean I hope he steps in it, with love."

Sam chuckles. "Sure thing. See you in a bit."

Dean spent the entire car-ride systematically and relentlessly charming his way into Ellen's good graces. He complimented Jo without being sleazy, he talked about Sam for _hours_ , asked how she met her husband and how they managed such a "healthy family relationship in an unhealthy profession", and by the time they arrived Sam is pretty sure she won't try to break his fingers again.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure it's that important that we figure out whether we're brothers or not?"

Sam looks up at him, wide-eyed.

Dean's eyes are scrunched up and lit with humor, and Sam can't help but huff out a laugh. Seems as though they can joke about it now. Okay, then.

"Hey, you're the one who suggested we summon and bind Death to our will, dude."

"Yeah, but... I thought there'd be less sewers involved, more virgins."

"You're disgusting."

"... So is _that_."

Dean points to a pile of... _ugh_.

Great. They've found it.

 

 

_2\. Tears shed for lost love_

Bobby gruffly suggests that he's got the perfect history for the second ingredient to work, but Sam can't be responsible for making the man put himself through that. Bobby's done so much for him already, and it's not like he's the only one with a fitting background.

Dean gives Sam a look that's impossible to describe, and then says; "You wanna be alone for this?"

(They never stop to discuss who it'll be. Sam's mind is already full of Jess.)

He shrugs but the truth is that yes, yes he does want to be alone for it because the way Dean invaded his life and his dreams and his personal space never registered as a threat, not until the idea that Dean could one day leave Sam registered as real. And Sam understands now that what he feels for Dean has taken over parts of what he feels--felt for Jess, no matter what Death reveals regarding the truth of their relationship.

Once he's sitting in the bed of Bobby's spare room with an empty jar next to him he lets every bit of the guilt he barely keeps at bay overwhelm him; a familiar drowning sensation.

Like the tide closing in over his head.

 _It's his fault she died he's the reason she's gone and she'd be happy and fine now if he'd been less selfish if he'd just killed himself when he should have when Dad left for a hunt and never came back and Sam was finally alone with no one to notice if he disappeared as well. The yellow-eyed demon wants him because he's dirty and tainted and corrupt and putrid inside, blood laced with poison and evil and he may not have had confirmation from Azazel back when he met her, may not have known for sure yet but he'd always_ felt _that darkness within... and still he dared to love Jessica and touch her and want her and maybe even marry her gorgeous loud laugh and her long blonde hair and her sharp wit and her freckles--freckles, right, because maybe Sam has a type and now he's gone and soiled the memory of the girl he loved and killed by letting the Reaper who never managed to take his soul somehow carve a space in his heart. When Sam had promised himself that that couldn't ever happen again, swore it over Jess' grave because Jess should have been the only one forever but Dean makes Sam_ laugh _, and Sam has the nerve to even feel something approaching happiness nowadays even though Jess is still dead and it's still his fault his burden his blame his guilt his fault all his fault--_

"Sam? You... okay?"

Sam can't answer, and he hears the door creak open slowly. Then--

" _Fuck_. Sam hey, _hey_..."

Dean's shaking him by the shoulders and the jar has a neat little pool of almost completely transparent liquid but for a long moment Sam feels like he'll never be able to stop crying. He's _sobbing_ , in fact, shuddery disgusting snot-laced sobs as the horror of what he's done takes him over. He can't stop thinking about every moment of light-hearted relief he's shared with Dean and he wants to punch himself, stab himself, hurt himself in some intrinsic way that will clean all that happiness out because Sam never, ever deserved joy. _Never_.

"Jesus, Sammy c'mon, stop..." Dean's voice is agonized. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm so sorry, but she... I never knew this girl but if she loved you she knew her shit and she wouldn't have let you push her away, all right?"

_Wouldn't have had to push her away if he didn't exist if he'd just died when he should have--_

"I'm sorry you won't have the perfect life you wanted with her, but please, please don't blame yourself."

Sam hiccoughs and wipes his cheeks with shaky palms. "Shit..."

Dean is crouched down in front of him, staring up. "No, that's okay, you can... you can cry, it's totally manly." Sam snorts. "I just... fuck, Sam you're so... if I could bring her back, I'd... I'd do anything, you know I would, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I know, Dean."

The hand Dean is resting on Sam's shoulder slowly slides to his neck, then up to cup his cheek.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I know that's fuck-all I can say or do but I really am. She must have been real special."

Sam nods because he can't manage words.

"Way outta your league too, I'll bet."

Sam laughs weakly. "Your tact blows my mind." Dean shrugs, and for some reason Sam wants him to understand. "She really was, though. Smarter and funnier and prettier; all of it. She was _good_."

"Well, prettier seems damn unlikely." Dean gently removes Sam's tear-dotted dirty glasses and starts to clean them on his shirt. "Especially right now with your ugly-crying-chic look. I mean hot damn, Sammy."

"Fuck you."

" _If only_ is what I'm sayin'--"

Sam shoves at him and Dean falls back on his ass, chuckling. He hands Sam back his glasses and rests a palm on Sam's knee for balance as he stands up.

So much touching.

"Hey, uh... I'll get Jo to help me draw the blood, okay? You stay here an'--"

"No," Sam says. Even at the tail-end of his mild panic-attack his greed for Dean's attention overrides both grief and guilt. "No, I'm fine, I'll do it for you."

Dean tilts his head to the side and chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment.

Then he grins hugely. "Believe me baby, you do it for me all right."

"Okay that's _it_ , you insensitive son of a--"

Dean sprints out of the room and Sam follows, bent on revenge. Feels like he leaves another small chip of his burden behind.

 

 

_3\. The blood of a first son_

It'll mean something, if this works, if Dean really is a first-born son.

Jo really is better qualified to draw blood than Sam (namely because she's done it plenty more times), so he ends up watching from the side while she sterilizes the needle and ties a tight tourniquet over Dean's thick bicep.

"Big strong hunter, I imagine needles are no trouble?” Jo asks casually.

Dean all but puffs out his chest. “Please. Stick anything you want in me.”

She smirks. “How predictable.”

“Excuse you, not a lot of guys are this adventurous.”

Sam watches Dean flirt with Jo in quiet resignation. Just as he managed with Ellen, Dean has been winning every single member of their little group over, one by one. Sam doesn't resent it in the slightest, of course; it makes him ridiculously happy to see Dean accepted (although it's even better to see Dean's reaction to that acceptance because he almost looks _surprised_ , as though he's not used to an emotional return) and it's obvious why he’s brilliant at it. After all, charming people was his job. He got the dead to follow him into the afterlife, he can get Jo to… well. Sam may be finding it a little bit harder to feel happy about that particular development, but he has no intention of getting in the way.

“Hey, Sam?”

“Hm?”

“Wanna hold my hand or something?”

Dean’s smiling up at him, bright eyes and crinkles and everything.

Sam is not proud of it, but he kind of melts. “I’m sorry, are you offering?”

Jo’s almost done, really, but Dean still reaches out with his other arm.

“C’mon Sammy. You know you want to.”

“You’re the one who’s getting—“ Dean’s smirk says he knows it full well. Sam gives up and rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

He slaps their hands together and Dean grabs him, holds on for a second until Jo pulls out the needle and then Sam tugs free.

“You’re such a jerk.”

“ _You’re_ a little bitch.”

Sam adjusts his glasses. “You’ve never made less sense. And that’s saying something.”

Dean removes the tourniquet himself and keeps his arm up while Jo hands Sam the syringe full of blood.

“We have to keep this in anti-coagulants unless you want it to clot and dry up,” she says, nodding at it.

“Yeah, I know. I’ll do it now.”

“Great. Then my job here is done.” She smiles cheekily and trots out of the room. It’s odd that Sam knows Jo can kill someone in ninety-seven different ways without breaking a sweat.

 

 

_4\. Three angel feathers_

"And after thinking about it for a long time, well, we finally decided to accept your help. We just need... we need three of your feathers for the ritual."

Castiel surveys them gravely before reaching into his pocket and drawing out three downy black feathers.

"I did say I would help. Of course these feathers are no more than a material representation of a power that has no form in the world you live in, because the human idea of an angel's true form is entirely false."

"That's great, Cas." Dean takes them and puts them in the plastic bag in his hands. Once that's done, Sam starts to unbutton his shirt.

Castiel looks disconcerted, and for a second (but only a second) almost... interested?

"What are you--"

"Psych!" Dean crows gleefully, and smacks his wet bloody palm onto Sam's naked chest.

By the time the light clears and Sam feels like he can blink safely again Castiel is gone.

"That. Was. _Awesome_."

Sam huffs. "He's going to hate us."

"Aw." Dean grins and takes one of the feathers out of the bag, twirling it in his fingers. Then he leans in close to Sam and uses the feather to brush under Sam's jaw and tip his head up. "Chin up, little brother."

Sam is completely unprepared for the way the nickname shoots down his spine and tugs at his groin. What the... _fuck_.

They both freeze, and Dean looks caught out and guilty and maybe Sam's projecting here, but he looks a little turned on too.

"We should..."

"I'm gonna go take these to Bobby," Dean blurts. "Final stages and all that, it's probably a good idea to--so yeah, all that's left is the Fuluright--"

"Fulgurite--"

"Whatever. See you Sammy."

"Okay, yeah."

"Yeah, bye."

And Dean's out of the car lot in a manner of seconds.

Well... that was unexpected.

 

 

_5\. An act of God, crystallized forever_

"Damn."

Sam straightens from his crouch and turns to find Dean very obviously checking out his ass.

Jo rolls her eyes. "I swear to God, you two get any cuter I'll rupture something."

"Can't help it, Joanna Beth. My man's got the booty."

Sam snorts. Their 'burglar' outfit isn't even tight, it's literally just Sam's usual clothes in black, no more than a color change.

"You're such an idiot."

"You love me."

Dean's been playing up Bobby's little misunderstanding since Jo asked him whether he had a girlfriend. He's apparently not interested. He told Sam this in a very somber tone, and flat-out shut down Sam's suggestion that it might not be the worst thing in the world for him to go out with Jo.

Ellen is the only one who knows they aren't really _together_ together (even if she doesn't know why), but she hasn't corrected anyone's assumptions so far, and Dean is apparently convinced that the best course of action to avoid any potential disasters with her daughter is to go all out on the PDA.

Like right now, as he walks up to Sam and puts his hand on Sam's hipbone, fingers curling warmly around it.

"Rufus is gonna be at the meeting point in two hours, guys. And we need him for this little heist, okay, he's way better at high security than my folks."

"We know," Sam says. "We're on schedule."

"You'd better be ready, is all I'm saying."

"We will be." Dean wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and puts his _other_ hand on Sam's other hipbone.

"Meet you in the car in five," Jo says pointedly, and leaves with a little incredulous laugh.

Dean is off of Sam the instant the door shuts behind her, but Sam's problem here is that Dean's stupid pretending shtick is fucking addictive. It's only been a couple of days but Sam can't get enough. When Jo's around Dean's focus is on him a hundred percent but it's different from his usual attentiveness; Dean touches Sam way more than usual, and he runs hands through Sam's hair and he pets and smiles and _praises_ Sam.

He tones it down around the other adults but it's still frustrating as hell, in the best worst way. The palm of Sam’s right hand and the fingers of his left have been getting a lot of action recently, is the thing, especially now that Sam has a room to himself with a bed he almost fits in.

"Sorry about that."

"No problem." Sam's a liar. "Should we go?"

"Wait two minutes, then we'll go."

Sam can't help it; Dean served that one up in a silver platter. "Two minutes, wow. I hope it was good for you, at least."

"You..." Dean's mouth opens and closes soundlessly for a minute (and Sam's only one twelve-thousandth demonic, he enjoys the view). "You're not allowed to say shit like that! That is false shit!"

"So you claim."

"Hell yeah I claim! What makes you think I'm not so mind-blowingly good it'll be you who's done in seconds?"

They've been like this for a long time and it's one in the morning, but Sam still has no excuse for what he says next.

"You've been all talk so far, brother."

It's the way he--okay, it's what he says too, but the way the word 'brother' comes out of his mouth is illegal in forty-two states and inappropriate in all six continents.

And _why_ did he say _'so far'_?

Dean's fake indignation has gone and his eyes are huge and darker than the night sky.

They both turn to the door slightly at the creak of approaching steps, and suddenly Dean's expression shifts to something reckless and resolute.

He grabs the front of Sam's black shirt and shoves, pushing him until Sam's back hits the wall and then Dean's plastered to him, warm enveloping body pressed up against his.

"D-De--"

" _Shh_."

Sam's throat closes up, arousal making him dizzy, and Dean buries his face in Sam's neck and in doing so rocks a little against him, Jesus _Christ_.

"In case it's Jo, yeah?"

He doesn't even understand the question, but Dean's hot breath is fanning over his ear the tip of his nose is brushing his neck so all Sam can do is pant: "Yeah, yeah," anyway.

The door opens and it's Ellen, who doesn't even bat an eyelash. "Boys, we're leavin'."

Dean jumps back like Sam burned him and rubs a self-conscious hand over the back of his neck.

"Uh, right. Sorry."

He's a really great actor. Sam can't even manage even breathing, left useless against the wall.

"For what?" Ellen winks at them and motions that they follow her, which Dean does.

Sam's dick needs to calm the hell down before he rides a car next to the source of its current state.

"I'll be right there. Star the car without me."

"You got thirty seconds, Sam," Ellen throws over her shoulder.

Dean doesn't say anything, but he stops at the doorframe and turns back to Sam, lower lip caught between his teeth.

The look in his eyes is impossible to describe.

 


	4. Eam moreris

 

"We did it." Dean's smile is huge. "We freaking did it."

"You realize it hasn't actually worked yet."

"If it doesn't work we'll have an answer, Sammy; I'm not a first son and this has all been a huge trolling by your angel boyfriend."

"Stop calling him that. And it could just be because the spell Bobby found was faulty."

Bobby and the others left after Sam and Dean told them to, arguing that the less people hanging around for a meeting where Death is sure to be pissed off, the better. They have the Martinez's empty mansion all to themselves, with bonus deactivated alarms, looped security cameras and garage keys thanks to Rufus and a contact of his called Frank.

"So all that’s left now is the summoning?”

“Yeah.”

Sam looks at Dean and Dean looks back.

“Hey—“ they both start at the same time, and laugh.

“You first,” Dean says.

Sam grimaces. “I was just going to say… whatever happens…”

But he can’t say it. He just can’t bring himself to do it.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to, because that's just how things are between them sometimes.

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “Yeah, me too.”

Sam hefts the ancient book up and starts reading the summoning chant aloud.

" _Te nunc invoco, mortem_..."

Lightning flashes outside and Sam thinks of the recently crushed Fulgurite in one of the bowls. The roll of thunder comes shortly after, and a terrifying wind batters the windows of the house, everything trembling and shaking until suddenly one of them explodes and the lights go out.

They set up in the Martinez's enormous living room, which is unfortunately lined with shelves upon shelves of thick geography books that thud loudly as the very walls seem to rattle and knock them loose.

Sam keeps going, raising his voice above the elements and drawing strength from Dean’s admiring, encouraging look. He can barely see the text but there’s only one line left...

_"Te in mea potestate difixi, nunc et in aeternum!"_

There’s a man sitting on one of the couches.

Sam hadn’t known what to expect when he’d imagined Death’s vessel on Earth, but he gets Dean’s description of it immediately (even though the vessel Dean had described was female). It’s in the eyes… a glimpse into something beyond ancient, beyond the concept of time a human brain can comprehend.

“Well.”

The vessel’s voice is clipped and concise, and his movement economic. The man calmly intertwines his fingers and regards them both. A spidery silver chain shimmers around his wrists.

“I suppose I expected this.”

“Hi, Boss. Long time no see,” Dean says. Sam is very impressed with his composure.

“Indeed. For you.” Death exhales in a way that suggests he might be sighing if he were a lesser creature. “Gone rogue, have we Dean? You were always too keen on learning the cloaking sigils. The Morrigan warned me several times.”

He looks at Sam, then back at Dean.

“I see you’ve found your brother.”

Well.

That answers that question.

“I…” Dean looks like the words just punched him in the gut. “I…”

“One would think a quick conversation would have cleared any doubt? Although I suppose you’re missing a few pieces of the story.”

“We’re… he’s…”

“We want the missing pieces,” Sam intervenes. He’d known, he tells himself. When Castiel said it, he’d already _known_. This Dean is his Dean. He’s always been his Dean.

“And you imagine that because you put a few ingredients together in a fancy bowl and drew some pretty scribbles on the floor, I am bound to answer.”

“Well… yes.”

Death exhales again.

“Humans. Tell me Sam, why do you think I haven’t taken your soul to its rightful place yet?”

Sam blinks, confused. “You… we were hiding from you. Tessa tried to undo Dean’s mistake, but then the archangel came and we drew wards against—“

"I'm _Death_ ," Death says, a touch exasperatedly. "If I had wanted to find you I could have found you. Angels and demons are much more limited than I am. Their power might be showier at times, but it comes with… restrictions."

“Then… wait, what are you saying?” Dean asks.

“I am saying ink and shapes that work against me are a delusion you've believed your whole life, Dean, but you are both alive right now because I allow it. I am saying you would do well to remember that, the next time you think of trapping me. Now let me go."

Dean doesn't back down. "We just have a couple questions, that's all."

"I don’t do story time, Dean, you know that,” Death says. “Let me go or I will be forced to experience an emotion you’d be wise to keep away from me.”

When neither Sam nor Dean says anything, Death clicks the vessel’s tongue.

“Anger. I will be angry.”

“But you’ll still be forced to answer our questions,” Dean says. “Might as well skip the middle step, right?”

The man stands up. He’s skeletally thin.

“Dean—“

"Why was I assigned to Sam? Was it because we're brothers?" Sam’s awe of Dean grows considerably: he just _interrupted Death_.

After a moment’s terrifying consideration, the Pale Rider sits down again.

“Yes. And no.”

“C’mon Boss, what kind of answer is that?”

Death glares at his adoptive son. "You were always meant to be Sam’s Reaper because you were destined to fail at your job.”

“I was… what?”

“You were never going to be able to Reap Sam’s soul. You were assigned to Sam because I ordered it so. And all this had to happen so that Sam Winchester could not die.”

“What?”

“Come now Sam, you were an atrocious hunter at first. Nobody could possibly survive the lifestyle you led in the beginning; the insomnia, the barely eating, the reckless contempt for mortal rules?”

“But I… why can’t I die?”

“Technically you can, but Dean’s assignation to you was orchestrated in order to prevent your death from happening.”

“But… _why_?” Sam repeats, forgetting who—what he’s talking to.

Death purses his lips in distaste. “Believe it or not, I am bound by contract.”

“Bound by… you made a deal? _You_?” Dean gapes at the Grim Reaper. “With who? Who wanted to save Sam?”

Death looks at Sam. “I’ve been told that nothing quite equals the love of a parent.”

Oh. “My dad made a deal with you?”

“No. John became a hunter after the fact; he didn’t even know about the supernatural at first.”

Suddenly Sam feels tears rush to his eyes. “My... my _mom_?” he whispers.

And he doesn’t understand a thing yet, but… Mary. Mary went to all this trouble to make sure he’d stay alive?

“Her name was still Mary Campbell when she made an ill-advised deal with a demon called Azazel in order to save her lover's life. You are aware of this, yes? I hear Azazel does enjoy boasting.”

“Yeah, yes. He never told her he was going to... poison me.”

“True, but Mary obviously suspected the deal would endanger her future child. So instead of going to another demon, she came to me.” Death tilts its head for a moment. “Well, technically she called me against my will in much the same manner as you have, but that’s all just detail. Mary wanted to trade her life for her child’s; she forfeited her soul in order to ensure her future baby's survival. She was quite intelligent in her wording, that I will grant; she used strategic… grammar. She did not ask for her child to survive Azazel’s attack; she asked for it not to die.”

A swell of overwhelming pride outshines everything else Sam is feeling for a brief moment. His mother outsmarted _Death_.

“There was just one thing that she had not considered.” Death nods to Sam. “A second child.”

“When Samuel was born, she called me again. She wanted to renew the contract, to make sure that it specified all of her offspring was equally safe. But I don’t do two-for-one specials. So I told her no. Her soul would save one, the other… well.”

And here both Sam and Death turn to Dean, whose eyes are glassy and who looks like he’s about to collapse.

“The other would have to pay his spirit’s worth in a different way, as I had no interest in John Winchester’s soul and he had never been part of the original draft. That is how Dean came to be in my employ the second Azazel came through on _his_ deal, and Mary Winchester died. He was not the first human to become a Reaper, nor is he the last.”

Dean nods numbly and mutters something that sounds like _Tess_.

“Your mother never knew which child would go which path, but she did make me swear _repeatedly_ that neither would come to harm. That the boy who came with me would keep his body and be able to walk the Earth as he wished, and that he would be protected, but free.”

Dean clears his throat, but his voice is still hoarse and raw when he asks: “Why can’t I remember anything?”

Death crosses the vessel’s legs, business-like. “I put up a wall in your head, to block out any traumatic memories.”

The ceramic bowl they used to crush the crystallized lightning emits a flash of light.

“You’re _lying_ ,” Dean grits out.

This time, it _is_ a full-blown sigh of exasperation. “Very well. I did it because you never would have stayed otherwise. You kept screaming for your brother over and over... it was loud, and tiresome. And you would have tried to look for him too soon; something I could not allow without further altering history. Fate was quite upset with your mother and me already, she visited several times along with her sisters—“

“I don’t care what Fate thought,” Dean snaps. “Take it out. Break it, whatever.”

“I can’t do that, Dean. The shock could kill you. You have lived with the wall for too long.”

“So I’m twenty-eight, but missing the first four years of my life? Is that what you’re saying to me?”

“Better to miss four years forever than to die now for a glimpse of a child’s fragmented memory.”

Dean lets out a shuddering breath, and Sam wishes he could do something to help, anything. But he’s still reeling from the revelations and he has no idea what he could possibly say in order to make things better.

“Is there anything else you’d like to know, or will that be all?”

The Pale Rider sounds quite fed up, the question purely rhetorical, but Sam has to ask now or never again.

"Why couldn't Dean Reap my soul?"

He doesn't look at Dean, although he can feel the weight of Dean's gaze.

"I suggest you ask him."

"No. I know why he didn't, but I want you to tell me why he _couldn't_ have. You sounded very sure that he was destined to fail at it. Why?"

There's a long, considering silence. Then Death stands again, manacles twinkling like spun silver thread.

"I'll say it again. Ask him."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean croaks. His voice sounds like someone took sandpaper to his vocal chords, at this point.

Death raises one eyebrow.

"The thing you've been suspecting since you brought him back?" he says to Dean, and for the first time the cold contempt seems to have leeched a little from his voice. "It's true."

“Dean?”

Dean doesn’t answer, color high on his freckled cheeks.

The Pale Rider pretends to wipe a speck of dust from his spotless suit (Sam remembers Dean doing that the second time they met, too). “You two do realize I need to get back to work, don't you?”

“Dean...?” Sam tries again, softer.

“All you need to do is break a line. It's quite simple."

Dean won't even look at him, so Sam's the one to do it, in the end. He drops to the floor and stabs his knife into the Martinez's expensive parquet floor, severing the binding circle in a flurry of sparks.

The manacles vanish from around Death's wrists and he rolls them slowly.

"That's better," He mutters. "You have a rather hectic schedule coming up, yes? There are quite a few interested parties out looking for you, if I'm not mistaken." He seems to consider his own words. "Then again I never am. You're being chased by Heaven and Hell, all the boys and girls."

Shit. He knows?

Of course he knows, he probably knows _everything_.

"Why does Azazel want me--"

"Ah, ah, too late for that now." Death raises a finger and Sam immediately goes quiet. "You'll have to figure that out for yourselves. Trust no one, but listen to the rebel angels. They have valuable information and they will only lie by omission. The end is almost here."

Rebel angels? What end? What is Azazel trying to do that has the angels so concerned with Sam and Dean? More importantly, how do they stop it from happening?

Sam can't believe he missed the opportunity to ask.

"Oh, and Dean?"

Dean looks up.

"I accept your resignation. Good luck with the new hunting job."

And with that, he vanishes.

*

Sam can't sleep.

Bobby's enormous lot is surprisingly conductive to reflection, so he snuck outside in his warmest hoodie jacket.

The cars in different stages of decomposition and repair reflect moonlight dully, dotted with rust. When he exhales the air steams out of his mouth and Sam sits on the hood of the black Impala he and Dean stole so fortuitously and just... breathes. He can't think. It's only been half a day since they got back, but they haven't really done anything productive other than eating Will's chicken stew.

Well, it's not that he can't think. The problem is that he's been thinking too much and he needs to stop or he'll explode like a gory _piñata_.

"Hey."

Well. That lasted about ten minutes.

"Hey."

Dean carefully slides next to him, and... huh, Sam was already sitting to the side. As though the space for Dean was premeditated, but it wasn't (it _wasn't_ ).

"So... how was your day, honey?"

Sam snorts.

"Found out I'm the reason my parents are dead and my brother was adopted by Death. You?"

Dean nudges him with a shoulder. "That's a really depressing way of looking at it, dude."

"You got a better one?"

"Hell yeah. I found out my mom was a freakin' badass."

Sam has to smile at that. "True."

"And... I found out I have a baby brother, which is pretty cool, too."

They exchange a look, and it's so charged Sam has to blink and break it. Dean doesn't look like he thinks it's 'pretty cool', he looks sad and sorry and messed up, like Sam feels.

"So... what was our dad like? I know bits of the timeline from your file, but... that never told me much. I guess you don't remember anything about Mary?"

"No. I was six months old when she... when the demon blood happened."

Dean nudges him again, a little harder. Sam appreciates the closeness too much. The hood of the car isn't that big.

"Dad was..." that's a tough one. "Dad loved her more than anything. He never talked about her, but you could see it in his eyes. He was one of those self-taught hunters, you know... he wanted to find Azazel, only we didn't know that was his name back then, didn't even know exactly what it was that killed her. But dad... he did his best with what life gave him, I guess. I was mad at him a lot. For a long time. Even after he... I think it was mostly grief, but I was angry at him for _dying_."

It's something he never thought he'd confess.

"How old were you?" Dean asks softly.

"Twelve. I never even... one day he just didn't come back." It was one of the worst times of his life, waiting and waiting until he realized what had happened. They had a call system, and John got delayed sometimes but never for as long as Sam waited. "He said he had a lead and he just left. He'd do that, if the gig was too dangerous for me to tag along. He was a Marine. Since then I've realized I was probably the safest kid in the country. Not even other hunters knew I existed."

Sam sighs, because that's not enough to explain John to someone who didn't know him. There were highs and lows; the man stubbornly plunged ahead through a decade of depression and he did the best he could. Somehow it doesn't seem quite fair to mention the drinking, although Sam's not sure why.

"He loved in his own way, you know? It's just... it was hard for him, losing you and mom. And I was... he knew what I was. What I might be."

"Hey," Dean says warningly. "You're a nerd and a giant and you might be in love with your laptop, but that's _it_. One-twelve thousandth demonic is nothing, Sammy. A few drops don't poison the whole glass."

"Except for how they totally do," Sam says with a twist of his mouth.

Dean elbows him and Sam elbows back, and then they are scuffling like children, the fabric of their jeans squeaking against the metal.

"Stop... talking like that!" Dean huffs. "C'mon, I worked for _Death_! I'm part-Reaper!"

"Demon blood!" Sam enunciates, shoving.

"It's not a competition!"

"If it-- _ow_ , if it was I'd win."

"Look, so we're both a little weird, so what? Nothing wrong with that."

And it's unfair that Dean does this to him so easily, but Sam's chuckling, a little breathless. "It's okay, Dean. I know I'm..."

Oh.

They got closer with the rough-housing. A _lot_ closer. Sam's thought process abruptly slows to the consistency of thick syrup. Dean's eyes in the goddamn moonlight.

"... I'm fucked... up..."

The steam billowing from their mouths mixes hotly between them and it's because they were moving around that they are breathing a little harder than they should be, of course it is, but _God_...

Dean licks his lips. The impulse to lunge forward and sink his teeth into the bottom one hits Sam hard.

"Sam..."

"Hello, Dean. Hello, Sam."

"Jesus _Christ_ , what the fuck is up with your fucking timing, man?"

Dean pushes away from Sam and glares at Castiel.

"And how the _hell_ did you find us?"

Castiel opens his mouth but someone else answers before he can.

"Well, it was no easy task, but the heavenly host still far surpasses _hell_." Whoa. A woman is suddenly standing next to the angel in the trench coat.

"Sam, Dean... this is Raphael."

Raphael. _Raphael_. That's an archangel. Sam knows that's an archangel, how did she appear like this?

She's gorgeous, and she looks far more put-together than Castiel in his scruffy tax-accountant. Her vessel is a dark-skinned woman in her late thirties wearing an elegant gray suit and intimidating high heels.

"You know power suits are totally last year, right?" Dean says.

Raphael gives Dean a supremely unimpressed look before slowly turning to look at Castiel.

"Really? This one?" she says, low smoky voice dripping contempt. "I thought the Michael-sword would have at least some basic manners."

"Dean's just an idiot," Sam says, sitting up. He has no clue what this 'Michael-sword' business means but it sounds threatening. "He wouldn't know common sense if it bit him in the ass; we're sorry. We meant no disrespect or offense."

"Well. I never would have guessed the demon-boy would be the politically correct Winchester."

Sam flinches and Dean snarls angrily.

"Take that back, you son-of-a--"

"Be quiet," she says, and the stream of insults and swear words coming from Dean's mouth cuts off (which just seems to make him angrier).

"Sam..." Castiel begins.

"How did you find us?"

"You called me to this place the other day. I knew what to look for."

Raphael clears her throat a little.

"And my sister helped. She is far more powerful than I."

"Yes, well... it is time to end this," she says. "Castiel told me you refused his assistance repeatedly, so I come here with a new offer. It is in my commander's best interests that Azazel's plan to open the gates should fail. I will be truthful; opening the gates is only the first step in a path that most of my other brothers and sisters want to see completed."

She sounds as though it's killing her to talk to them on such equal terms, but Sam figures she can just deal.

"Angels and demons wanting the same thing?"

"Not all, obviously, but... yes, a lot of them seem to have come to some sort of mutual understanding. Do not mistake this for an alliance, however; it is a temporary agreement comparable to generals of war shaking hands before the heavy artillery is brought out."

Shit.

"Let me guess; Earth is the battlefield." Neither of them replies, which is answer enough for Sam. "So whose side are you on?"

"Neither. Yours," Castiel says. "We are organized and our leader Anael intends to halt the path to destruction before it even begins."

"She has a soft spot for humans," Raphael mutters, as though she finds that to be a terrible character flaw. And then, in her normal tone of voice: "Our unit has rebelled. Recently. And you are key in aiding us against Azazel _and_ our blind brethren. They need you, therefore we do."

_Trust no one, but listen to the rebel angels._

Sam's stomach flips.

"Why do they need me, though? I thought the whole point of Azazel's Hunger Games contest was for the winner to open the gates, and he has Jake."

"Jake has been... a little difficult about it." Well, Jake _had_ seemed like a decent guy up until he stabbed Sam. "Ultimately, Azazel's plans for you are a little broader in scope than that. The details are irrelevant--" she says before Sam can ask. "--but he needs your mind, body and soul to remain exactly as they are. Which is why we are about to ask you to alter them."

"... Alter them."

"Yes." Her tone is final.

"Alter my mind, body and soul?"

"Yes. So that he cannot use you."

Dean furiously mouths: _No fucking way!_ But neither angel pays him any notice.

"Use me how?"

"That is not important. All you need to know is that right now your Hell-spiked blood is valuable to Azazel and we need to change that. Fast. Before he finds you."

Sam doesn't quite dare push it. Not with an archangel.

_They have valuable information and they will only lie by omission._

"Look, say I believe you and I agree to do this. How... how am I supposed to change my blood?" his voice cracks on the last word unexpectedly. Then again, the question has so much subtext it's practically dragging along the dirt. Sam flashes to himself as a child praying to be normal and already suspecting he could never be truly clean; to seeing Jessica's death for days before it happened; to the tempting curve of Dean's mouth.

Castiel looks quite troubled by the fact that Sam is upset.

"It's not as literal as changing your blood, Sam," he says. "You must simply anchor yourself to something that counters Azazel's influence over you."

"Azazel does _not_ have any influence over me," Sam breathes. "I would never--"

"Not voluntarily, of course. But this anchor will protect your mind, body and soul from demonic reach."

Dean's gesticulating is getting wild and he's red-faced. Raphael rolls her eyes and lifts the silent spell.

"--fucking way is that 'simple'!"

"You know what they're talking about?" Sam says.

"Of course I know what they're talking about, I've worked with souls my whole life! I also know the anchor is supposed to be me, and I won't fucking do it!"

The words are so harsh and painful Sam almost makes a wounded noise aloud. He'd... he thought... he never would have asked, but to hear Dean say it with such _venom_.

Castiel cocks his head.

"Why do you doubt yourself?"

Dean looks like the words just punched him in the gut.

"I... what?"

"You care deeply for your brother. You love this boy." Oh God, _stop,_ Sam needs Castiel to stop talking now. "And you are scared you will not be good enough. Why, when there is no one on this Earth he would allow half as near his heart as he does you?"

Raphael rolls her eyes.

"I could hurt him," Dean says, small. His eyes are locked with the angel's and Sam might be shaking a little.

"The bond between your souls will protect Sam from harm. Think of what you know from special cases such as yours. You could never hurt him. It is not possible." Castiel's big blue eyes are kind. "Remind yourself of that and you will not fail."

There's a long, tense silence.

"What happens when we do this and Azazel has no use for me anymore?" Sam says.

"Elaborate."

"Castiel said the only reason the yellow-eyed demon hadn't opened the gates was that he was waiting for me. Won't he just go ahead and do it when he finds out he can't use me for anything else? Whatever that 'anything else' is that you won't tell me?"

Castiel looks a little pained, but Raphael just looks surprised that Sam made the logical leap.

"We will deal with that. It is not your concern."

"A small bunch of angels will deal with the demons and most of the other angels, is that what you're saying," Dean snarks.

Raphael looks to be officially fed up. "Yes. You have until tomorrow to perform the ritual."

"Hey, I thought this was an _offer_."

"It is. The counter-offer is we kill Sam right now." She points at Sam's chest making a finger-gun and it should look comical, but it's eerily threatening. "You have twenty-four hours to finish this. It ends in Wyoming, where the key will find its lock."

"... Sorry," Castiel says. He really does seem sorry.

Between one blink and the next, both angels are gone.

"Fucking angels," Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. "And apparently rebel angels are even worse."

Sam takes off his glasses and pretends to clean them on the sleeve of his hoodie for something to do (so he doesn't have to look at his brother).

"Will you do it?"

"Hm?"

Sam hopes his fringe is hiding enough of his face.

"Will you be my anchor. Touch my heart, whatever it is Castiel meant about you protecting my soul."

"Sam... it could go wrong."

Sam doesn't look up. "But you'd know how to do it, then."

"I... think so. Yeah."

Sam nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Dean's headspace is so hard for him to understand sometimes.

"What do we need? Because if we have to get it by tomorrow--"

"This isn't like a spell. There's no list of ingredients." Dean clears his throat and makes an attempt at his usual dirty drawl: "We just need you, me and a bed." Sam snorts. "And some African Dream Root, but Bobby mentioned having that in stock, so..."

"We're spirit-walking?"

" _I'm_ spirit-walking. Hypothetically."

Sam thinks back to their experiment by the side of the road; Dean sinking the pad of a finger into Sam's chest and painting his skin in bright burning red.

"Oh. So you _do_ know why that whole... reaction happened."

Dean bites his lip. "I didn't know for sure, back then. I had some ideas." He shifts. "One idea, really."

"Death said it was the right one."

"Yeah."

"And Castiel said it was the reason you could never hurt me."

"M-hm."

There's a pause.

"You're not going to tell me what it is, are you?"

"We've had enough information dump for one day, don't you think?" Dean sounds a little strung out and Sam decides to let it go, at least for now. "Sounds like we have a date tomorrow."

"Tomorrow. Sure." Sam finally looks up at his brother, and he smiles a little at Dean because it seems as though he just agreed. "You should get some sleep, Dean."

"You comin'?"

"Yeah, in a bit. You go ahead."

Dean shrugs and starts trudging up towards the house. Sam watches him go for a few seconds until he can't take it anymore.

"Hey, Dean?" he calls after him. "About what you said to Castiel... I'm not worried, okay? I trust you."

Dean makes a face. "You shouldn't."

"Well I do, so suck it." He can already see Dean's expression changing as he senses the potential to escape towards humor. "And don't... don't make that into a sex thing."

Dean laughs anyway, but it sounds real and only a tiny bit sad.

"Making everything you say into a sex thing is my favorite hobby, Sammy! Right after watching Dr Sexy M.D." Dean starts walking away again. "So I think you should be the one doing the sucking, at least at first. S'only polite to offer before you ask."

" _Goodnight_."

"Night, bro."

Once Dean's out of sight Sam hops off the car and makes his way further into Bobby's lot. He has an idea of his own, and if it can help fill in the final blank without causing Dean any more headaches then he's going to at least try. It might not work, but he has hope.

"Castiel...?" he whispers. "Um. Castiel who art in heaven-- _Jesus_!"

"You keep calling me that," Castiel comments next to him.

Sam laughs nervously. "Sorry. I, um... I was wondering whether I could ask you a quick question. It's about Dean and me."

Castiel nods slowly, and the look in his eyes says he already knows what Sam's going to ask.

"Dean and me... I keep hearing stuff like what you said, about us being a 'special case'. A, uh, certain horseman said Dean could never Reap my soul, but not just because we're brothers. And _you_ said he couldn't hurt me, as if it wasn't physically possible. He’s chosen not to do either of those things, but I wanted to know... why you all seem to think he’d have no other option, even if he wanted to? If you can tell me? Please."

The angel's mouth softens and he almost _smiles_.

"Yes. Of course I can tell you, Sam."

Sam's stomach turns with nerves. "Why... why, then?" he says.

"Your souls share a special bond. They are connected."

"You said that. But how?"

“In this case, connected is another way of saying mated," Castiel says gently. Sam can't think of anything to say to that. "Mated souls are a rare and miraculous occurrence, Sam. I had not seen it in a long time."

"What?"

"You were made to be paired together; halves of a whole. The fact that you are brothers is quite secondary to that bond." He recites the following as if it were scripture, even though Sam knows it's not. " _The two spirits will be linked through the mortal realms, and they will inhabit separate bodies but they will belong together and be drawn together, share a Heaven together, and their Hell shall be being apart_.”

Mated souls.

Mated _souls_?

As in... _soulmates_?

"I hope that answers your question, Sam."

"I... yeah."

 _Soulmates_.

"I expect I will see you soon."

"Yeah. Thanks," Sam says automatically. His thoughts are a million miles away.

Soulmates.

*

Sam wakes up after a restless few hours to the sound of Rufus and Bobby arguing in the kitchen. They bicker like an old married couple and it's pretty hilarious. He walks in still wearing a pair of baggy pajama shorts and an old shirt, and gets two ' _Mornin' Sam_ 's mid-heated discussion.

Dean is sitting quietly at the table, nursing a cup of coffee.

"Morning."

Sam nods. "Hi." And thinks: _so I'm all caught up on the thing about us being soulmates. Pretty weird, huh?_

He's decided that he needs to stop this thing with Dean before it's too late.

The problem with what he learned last night is that Sam still remembers Dean's face when he asked Castiel if he had a family. Soulmates is a big word, but it doesn't _have_ to be romantic (...right?). If Sam can look without touching, want without having, then he and Dean can go on like they should, and have something pretty amazing. Neither of them ever went out and said it, but it's been made pretty clear that their family ties immediately cancel out anything that might have happened otherwise.

It's time to move on, and Sam will be the one to take this one for the team, so to speak. If Dean's going to be his anchor then Sam needs to demonstrate that he can take care of him in return. He's been letting Dean watch out for him for too long without being able to reciprocate, and he's got to step it up. Well, he's finally found a place to start: learn to shut down his feelings and give Dean what he's always wanted. Family.

Nothing more.

"You sleep at all, baby bro?" Dean murmurs. Neither Bobby nor Rufus takes any notice.

"A bit." Sam sits in front of him and leans in close. "How are we gonna explain the angels' visit?"

Dean shrugs helplessly. "I got nothin'."

Of course, they never told the others what Death told them. Dean is still Sam's hunter 'friend' and Death wasn't interested in helping them track down Azazel. The problem is that Sam doesn't feel like he knows enough to trust the angels in taking care of that whole situation by themselves. And he wants to be the one to kill the yellow-eyed son of a bitch.

His intermittent bouts of sleep have given him a lot of perspective, and a few ideas.

"How long will it take? The ritual."

Dean sighs. "I'm still not sure we should be doing it, Sam."

"Dean. We have to."

Dean leans in even closer. He smells like breakfast and warm sleep, and his freckles are the same color as the organic sugar on Bobby's table. “There are a hundred reasons why it's a bad idea and the fact that the angels told us to do it is numbers one through fifty.”

"Dean--"

"They're just using us."

"And we're using _them_. It's a win-win, okay? What's the worst that could happen? If it doesn't work we'll just go back to our original plan of... oh wait, we hadn't made one yet."

"I still liked that better than this."

"Raphael will kill us. We have no other choice, okay?" Sam reaches for the coffee pot and suddenly his arm spasms, back-muscles cramping unexpectedly. He hits his elbow hard against the table and rattles Dean's cup. "Ow, shit, sorry--"

"No, hey, you okay?"

"Fine." He has two different types of cream he still needs to apply to the scars regularly, and it's supposed to involve some sort of massage to help with blood-flow, but Sam's reach is limited. He's fine, though. He's been doing just fine by himself for the past couple of years.

"Is it your back?"

He blurts out; "How do you know?" before he can stop himself. It's just... he'd been pretty careful to hide that particular mess from Dean.

"You... the way you move, sometimes. What is it?"

"Sam? You got back problems? That's not normal for your age."

Shit, Bobby and Rufus are staring at him.

"I, um... no, it's..."

"You didn't know about this, Dean?" Bobby asks testily. Dean is way ahead of him, though.

"'Course I did, I just didn't expect it today." He stands up, abandoning his breakfast and walking around to take Sam's hand. "Usually happens only if we're on the road. Sammy had a nasty run-in with a werewolf a few months ago, ain't that right?"

"Maybe you shout rest up, kiddo," Rufus suggests. "Let your special _friend_ take care of you for a bit, huh?" (Sam introduced Dean as his friend and Rufus has been gleefully mocking him for it since yesterday).

"I--" But Dean's tugging him up and leading him out of the kitchen.

Ellen and Will are on the same couch reading a book and a scroll, respectively, but they both look up.

"Morning, boys," Ellen says. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, Sam just needs a bit more beauty sleep. He'll be fine." Dean keeps manhandling Sam through the living room and towards the stairs.

"Dean--"

"Bobby'n me wanted to talk to you later, all right?" Ellen calls. "'Cause Will's found us a case and if you won't be needing us anymore..."

"Sounds great!"

Dean pushes Sam up the stairs and into Bobby's spare room.

"Dude, what the hell?" Sam snaps, tugging his arm free and hiding a wince when that, too, pulls at his shoulders.

" _That_ ," Dean says. "Something you wanna tell me about?"

"Well it wasn't a werewolf, but I got a nasty wound and it bothers me sometimes. It's no big deal, Dean, we have way more important shit to think about right now--"

"I remember the day we met, you know."

Sam's stomach drops. He doesn't want to talk about that day ever again.

"Sammy, I saw your spirit form. Your back looked like a Shtriga’s nail-file."

Shit.

Sam blows out a breath that briefly ruffles his fringe. Dean's got a look in his eye like he's never going to let this go and the worst thing is that Sam knows he's just trying to help.

"Fine. My back's kind of a mess. It can get a little painful."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No." He doesn't want to sound too harsh, so he amends; "I appreciate you offering, but there really isn't anything."

"You taking any meds?"

"...No." He'd felt too vindicated in his pain. "Sometimes I'd drink, though."

Dean doesn't seem to find that very funny.

"Dean, this is completely useless, we have way more important things to--"

"You don't take anything?"

"I have some cream, okay? But listen, I've been thinking--"

"Let's have it then." Dean holds out a hand expectantly.

"No way. We need to prepare the ritual, right? And I think--"

"It can wait an hour."

"Dean, _no_." Dean opens his mouth to protest but Sam cuts him off. "We're not doing this, okay? Not happening." Ritual be damned, the reason this is a bad idea has nothing to do with timing and everything to do with Dean seeing him bare and vulnerable and asking to touch his scars. Sam can't let that happen, not now when they stand on such shaking ground already.

He's made his decision, and it's for both their sakes.

"Fine," Dean grunts, clearly upset. "Then I guess we skip right to the finale then, huh? Good thing you'll be at the top of your game. Oh wait--"

" _Listen to me_ ," Sam hisses. "I think we should tell the others the truth."

That makes Dean's eyes go huge, and he blushes pink.

"But they all think... and Ellen _saw_ us, Sammy I-I don't--"

"Not about us being brothers, God. I meant... about me. Azazel, the gate. The angels. I mean, maybe they are equipped to handle it, but I don't know man, how many rogue angels can there be? You said it yourself; can they really fight all the demons under Azazel's command plus the other angels? I think they'll need all the help they can get, and I think Bobby and Ellen would want to try."

Dean looks considering.

"That's actually a good point."

"Right?" Sam nods. "The more of us the better! And if Jake's been less than cooperative with the demons we'll have a better shot at changing his mind than the angels do, that's for sure." 

Dean starts nodding along as well. "Yeah, yeah. We've still got some time to round up a few people, right? Bobby's like, hunter central."

"Exactly."

Suddenly Dean grins. "Yeah, and you know what? There's a couple of people I can call, too."

*

It takes a good long hour of discussion and answering questions before Bobby, Ellen, Will and Jo are satisfied and ready to act. They only leave out the fact that they're siblings and the anchoring ritual, choosing instead to go for 'convenient spell'. By the time Sam's sure they're convinced, it's two p.m. and there are ten hours left until Raphael carries out her threat.

"You're a _Reaper_ ," Jo says for the tenth time.

"I told you, I'm retired."

"And you quit because of Sam." She bites her lower lip. "I think that's the corniest thing I've ever heard."

Dean rolls his eyes and she laughs. Sam's just glad the word 'soulmate' was omitted from their explanation.

"We need to focus, people," Ellen cuts in. "I need to get one last thing straight. This ritual will be the catalyst that causes old yellow-eyes to make his move, right?"

"Right."

"So you two are basically our timer."

"Yeah. I guess that's one way of looking at it."

"And where are these gates of hell?" Bobby asks.

"Wyoming. According to Castiel."

"Okay then." Bobby and Ellen exchange a brief look, and then she nods at him to continue. "You two need to pack your stuff and get outta here, leave the organizing of the hunters to us. I have a lot of phones and a lot of numbers, and we've got some gatherin' to do."

"What? But... we can't leave."

"Sam," Ellen steps forward, eyes sad. "We know you. And we don't care why some demon is after you, but there's gonna be people that do. Hunters who will ask questions about a boy who can do things no human should. It's either a last-minute appearance or you'd better not show up at all. You get that, right?"

Of course Sam gets that. Even without mentioning the demon blood or who Dean's parents really are, he has tried to be as truthful as possible. And Ellen's right; if the wrong person gets a whiff of what Sam really is everything could fall apart, and they can't do the ritual here anyway; not if Bobby's is about to become a crowded hunter hotspot in a manner of hours.

"We'd better start making those calls, folks," Bobby says. "And leave Gordon to me, 'kay?"

"Leave Gordon to _me_ ," Ellen corrects. "But yes, we should get to it. C'mon Jo."

All three Harvelles vacate the kitchen, and Sam can already hear Jo talking into her cell phone: "Bela, hi. It's about that favor you owe me..."

"Meet us in Wyoming once the spell is done," Bobby tells them. "And get me an address I can hand out."

"We'll text you the moment we have it.”

“Good.”

Sam and Dean exchange a look and start to head out.

“One more thing.” They both turn simultaneously. “Be careful, you two.”

Sam smiles weakly. “Aren't we always?”

*

"Are you going to tell me exactly what we’re doing here?"

Dean makes a face. "It's... it's a bit like what we did with that." He nods at Sam's chest.

"I thought it might be."

They've stopped at a motel halfway to the cowboy cemetery where Azazel plans to open the gates of Hell.

Castiel had been the one to tell them where it was; Dean prayed for him while Sam drove and the angel appeared immediately, although he had a bit of trouble entering the heavily warded car (there were a couple of bangs and thumps against the roof before Dean had the forethought to open a window). It was a brief, efficient visit, and Dean messaged Bobby immediately after to tell him where to send everyone. That done, he had declared that it was time to get in touch with his contacts.

His ‘contacts’ turned out to be Tessa, who he called on a _phone_.

(“ _What? If she doesn’t pick up I’ll do the whole magical spirit-plane thing, but it’s a hassle and I’m pretty much limited to human stuff when I’m in my body_.”)

Luckily, Dean’s stepsister had picked up and agreed to help after a very long and drawn out discussion which Sam only heard one side of, because it happened while he was still driving. The end result seemed to amount to a whole array of different beings converging in Wyoming to aid the angels in their fight, whether the help was wanted or not.

And despite everyone else's plans for battle... the Winchester detour is happening at a seedy place they are (not) paying for by the hour and it involves two single beds that are much too small and narrow for either of them. Everyone is on alert waiting for their move, and they have three hours and one ritual to go.

“So... how long until the dream root takes effect?”

“Like, a minute.”

Dean looks at the murky glass in his hands, and he seems troubled.

“Everything okay, Dean?”

“I’m just… thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.” His brother barely reacts, which tells Sam quite a lot. “Dean. What is it?”

Dean doesn’t answer.

“Hey.”

Sam knocks their knees together; an easy feat since their beds are practically touching and they sit face to face.

"C'mon, tell me how you're going to 'touch my heart'," he says, mocking. Under his disbelief is fear, of course, that this won't work because of a simple redundancy issue.

Dean looks up at him from under his lashes but he doesn't answer.

"Dean...?" And suddenly Sam gets it. "Wait. This is another case of 'not being literal enough', isn't it?"

"'Fraid so, Sammy."

"Oh. Okay... well. Okay then. Um... I assmue nobody's performing any thoracic surgery here, so that's why you're spirit-walking?"

Dean nods heavily. "... Yeah." He's glaring at the murky glass again. "Sammy, I--"

"No, c'mon, we have to. Everyone's counting on us now, and I'll be fine."

"I don't do it right, that--" Dean motions to the red burn peeking from the collar of Sam's shirt. "happens to your heart, Sam. I'll kill you."

"Dean--"

"Sammy I can't."

"That's right, you _can't_. You can't hurt me, remember?" Their eyes meet, and in that moment Sam knows that Dean has figured out what Castiel told him. "Even if you wanted to. _'They shall be linked through the mortal realms',_ right?"

Dean still looks pained.

"Time's running out, Dean." Sam starts to unbutton his shirt, trying to make his voice and posture coaxing, comforting. Inviting.

Dean groans. "Fuckin' hell, kid. You'll be the death of me."

Sam slides the shirt over his shoulders and lies down on the bed so his back is pillowed by the mattress and out of sight. "Come on. We have no other choice."

Finally, Dean downs the drink in three desperate gulps, and throws himself down on his bed. He looks up at the ceiling determinedly, and doesn't say a word as the seconds tick by until his eyes flutter closed and then...

Dean's getting up from the bed, but Dean's also still lying down. He's not in his Reaper uniform this time, though; he's in the clothes he was already wearing. When he turns to look at Sam, green eyes bright with doubt and hesitation, Sam shakes his head.

"I'm good. Come on."

Dean walks to the headboard of Sam's bed. It's weird; Sam's gotten so used to corporeal Dean that it's strange to see this Dean again. Then he remembers something that happened before and takes off his glasses. The world around him blurs, but Dean remains sharp and focused, so Sam sets the lenses on the tiny night table.

"Come on," he says again. It's inevitably sexual, even with context. He's half naked and asking Dean to touch him, get in him.

Dean leans over him, looming but not threatening, just... Dean. Sam is okay with it. Sam's nipples have hardened in anticipation of the painfully burning touch so maybe he's a little more than okay with it. His brother still hasn't said a word, though.

"Do it."

Dean extends a hand dotted with freckles on the back, and Sam notices them (understands what they mean, that Dean listened to him) a second before Dean's fingers are sinking into his chest.

Sam gasps and wheezes in a rattling breath as agony lights him up instantly. It's intimately painful, and Dean lets out a sympathetic little noise as he pushes in deeper.

Sweat breaks out all over Sam's skin and he can feel the urge to move tensing and clenching his muscles, but just as it's happened every other time he couldn't say whether he'd arch closer or pull away. It's like fire, and Sam knows fire, knows it better than anyone should; it's like lava. And, somehow, it's so fucking good he wants to scream.

"D-Dean--" he rasps, and there's a pearl-white light shining around Dean's wrist, through the space in Sam's chest Dean is occupying.

"Almost there Sammy, we're almost there sweetheart, you're gonna be fine..." Dean's muttering bullshit like that non-stop, and Sam wants to protest the endearments but he can't, not when his lower body is writhing and bucking because he can feel Dean in his chest, his heart, he can feel Dean in his pulse and between his lungs, pumping through his blood...

*

It feels like he _slams_ into consciousness and Sam wakes up gasping.

He barely has time to suck in a breath before a hollow, empty yearning in the pit of his stomach makes itself known and it's like a black hole, and Sam wants, Sam needs--

"Dean!"

He scrambles upright and looks around frantically and Dean's right there, Dean's hands are on his shoulders, solid, and his lips look so so soft--

"Sammy, hey, whoa--"

"N-no, please, I..." Sam is appalled at his own actions but at the same time it's like he can't stop. He's trembling slightly, pushing forward into Dean, pulling Dean towards him because he just _needs_.

"Sam--"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." Sam pants, trying to get a hold of himself, trying to let go of the iron grip he's got around the folds of Dean's shirt. "I-I just..." He just wants Dean close, just wants to crush his brother to him and mold them together and never let go.

"Sam, _breathe_." Dean is trying to meet his eyes but he's blurry again and Sam needs his glasses. "In and out, okay? You're fine. We're fine. I think it worked."

Sam shudders and does his best, honestly he does, but his skin itches where Dean's not touching and he just wants Dean to touch him _everywhere_.

Dean's voice is gravelly with attempted reassurance and he tells Sam about calling Bobby and how Tessa is apparently worried about how to communicate with 'Team Human', a mostly meaningless stream of soothing information designed to tell Sam everyone else is handling this, that they are safe, that they'll be fine...

"... and we don't even have to go, we can just stay here and rest up and--"

Wait. "What? Dean, we have to help them."

Dean stares at him. "Dude, I don't know if you've noticed, but you're in no state to be helping anybody. You need to help yourself first."

Finally, Sam finds the will to let go of his brother and draw away a little (but only a little). Dean looks shaken too, and a little pale, his freckles standing out against his skin.

"I'm sorry I freaked out just now," Sam starts to say carefully. "But I promise you; I'm perfectly fi--"

"If you say 'fine' so help me I am going to tie you to this bed, Sam."

Sam's cock _jerks_. It's... he doesn't know if he gets to blame it on the adrenalin or on what they just did but fuck, _fuck_ , surrendering to Dean, _yes_. Right now it sounds like the best thing he could possibly imagine, the mental image hitting hard. Maybe Dean would use his belt--

He could have probably gotten away with it if he hadn't shifted and hunched over guiltily after, but... he does. And Dean looks down.

" _Shi-it_ ," Dean hisses, scrambling up and away.

"Dean, I'm sorry--" Sam chokes immediately, sick to his stomach suddenly at the idea that he's the cause of Dean's disgust. He'd thought... he'd assumed--then again they never actually _talked_ about it which is something they should have probably done at some point or other...

"No, don't... it's just that you make it so fucking difficult to... fuck, Sam."

"I'm so sorry. Please, Dean, I'm sorry--"

Dean digs the heel of his palm into his eye, groaning. "Stop apologizing, God."

Sam stops. Instantly.

Dean groans again, starting to look frayed around the edges. "Oh _fuck_ Sam, we've got a fucking supernatural war to avert and you're trying to kill me?"

"I-I... what?"

"Have some mercy, kid, I'm only human. Sort of."

"But I'm not..." It's then that he sees the bulge tenting the front of Dean's jeans. "Dean, are you...?"

"Picturing a bunch of dead kittens right now? Yeah." He drops down onto the foot of his bed, head in his hands, and mutters: "Fuck, Sam, you and your thing with being tied down."

Sam sits up a little, very aware of the fact that he's still shirtless and his chest has a new red mark the size of Dean's fist. It sits fresh and bright, right over Sam's heart.

"Dean." Dean doesn't turn around to look at him. Right, Sam had decided he'd be strong for the both of them. He can do this. He'll do this for Dean. "How long was I out?"

Businesslike. Distracting from their little situation.

"About half an hour," Dean mumbles. "We need to... if you really want to get to the old cowboy cemetery in time, we should leave now."

Sam has powered through worse. He's just... the gnawing itch under his skin won't leave. And his hard-on won't either, which is a little fucked up in a million different ways; for God's sake there are lives at stake here. Maybe the fact that Dean actually touched his soul is doing this to him, to both of them.

"Then we should leave," he says hesitantly. "Right?"

Dean finally looks at him.

"Sam, I... I feel a little fucked up, right now."

Sam licks his lips, thoughts going a mile a minute. "Me too, actually."

Dean's hand is on his own lap, and Sam catches the fingers squeezing his thigh. "I know it's gonna sound crazy, but I think I... I think I need a minute in the bathroom before we leave," Dean huffs out. "Feels like it's not goin' away on its own."

"Yeah. I hear ya."

Dean is worrying his lower lip between his teeth, which he should stop doing immediately unless he wants Sam to lose his mind. "You do, huh?"

Electric green gaze and a non-verbal offer they both know hangs in the air, and Sam wants to say yes, he wants to give in, but it's not right, it's not worth screwing things up between them forever.

"Go ahead."

Dean's hand spasms. "What?" he grunts.

"Go ahead. I'll... we can..." he fumbles with the button of his jeans and suddenly Dean's doing the same and it's a mad scramble against zippers separated by five feet and then Dean lets out a sound that will haunt Sam forever.

"Sammy _oh_ \--"

He falls back against the mattress as if the touch of his own hand on his dick melted his spine, and Sam's hips buck up into the pressure of his palm at the sight of Dean's open mouth and his trembling eyelashes.

"Y-you take it out too, yeah? C'mon Sammy, c'mon..."

Dean's fist is stroking up and down his cock, already frantic as though he's skirting the edge of orgasm within seconds. His stomach muscles clench and unclench, going concave when he tightens his grip around the head, and Sam's mouth is watering for a taste. His skin crawls with desire, and his own cock feels like a brand, pulse throbbing down there and so so hot--

"Sam, Sam, Sam," Dean pants, head twisted to watch Sam touch himself, and it's going to kill Sam, the way Dean is so clearly turned on by this, the way he's writhing against the sheets and humping up desperately into the air.

"Dean, you..." But making words is too complicated right now so Sam gives up, ends up letting out punched-out noises with more air than sound in them because he's just that far gone.

"This make you feel better?" Dean bites out. His hips continue to churn helplessly and his cheeks are flushed pink, lips swollen and red because he keeps biting them. Sam can't look away, because Dean's so freaking gorgeous he's unreal. "Us not touching, this make it okay?"

"F-fuck..." Sam hitches.

"'Cause all I'm thinking about right now is touching you, Sammy, it's all I'm... _ngh_ , all I want, all I ever wanted--"

Sam whimpers, shifting and pumping his fist faster, needing to get there before the swirl of drunken arousal in his stomach and Dean's incendiary words make him confess things he shouldn't.

"I'd kill to get my hands on you Sam, ain't nothing I wouldn't do--sometimes I-- _ah_ \--I'm scared of the things I'd do for you--just to touch you, kid, just... to touch..."

Sam can feel the liquid heat of release pooling in his gut, ready to shoot, ready to splatter all the way up his naked chest.

"Please--" he gasps. "Please, I'd give... anything..."

Dean grunts and starts to come, pulses of it coating his abs and his own hand, the sound of his skin slickening and Sam moans because he's also going to, gonna--

" _Fuck_ , Sammy, damn."

They come down together, but separate, and Sam's desire for Dean's skin hasn't been eased by what they just did. Of course it hasn't, if anything it's just worse now that the thin sheen of sweat is turning cold and his heart rate is getting back to normal.

"Sammy?"

They look at each other and Sam thinks ' _and their Hell shall be being apart'_ and _'You care deeply for your brother. You love this boy_ ' and _'I like how he looks at you'_.

"We could stay here," Dean murmurs. "We could stay here and not die and you'd be safe."

"Nah," Sam says shakily. "I don't think we could."

Dean smiles a little, wry. "Guess not. Big damn heroes, we are."

Time is a commodity they can't afford, so they clean up and get dressed, both of their movements fast and efficient; there are no lingering touches, no particularly long looks. It's a little awkward and a little bashful and a lot like a routine. Communication is entirely through grunts and nods, occasionally a "You got the...?" "Yeah."

And then they are running to the car and peeling away towards the cemetery, Sam calling Bobby while Dean drives and assuring them that he's fine, that they are on their way, and that _of course we didn't stop for takeout, Bobby, come on!_

When he hangs up he's focusing on the immediate problem at hand and not... nothing else. "How do you think Azazel knows? That I'm no longer... y'know." A horrible thought occurs to him. "Maybe he can sense me."

"Nah. Probably knows because he _can't_ sense you anymore, man." Dean flicks his leg, briefly glancing away from the road. "I don't know if you noticed, but I kind of fisted your soul there for a bit."

Sam lets out a startled sound, and then decides to just go with it.

"You'd think after what just happened you'd tone it down for, like, an hour."

"Never."

"Well I hate to break it to you, but I don't think it's legal for me to return the favor."

Dean starts choking on air while taking a curve way past the speend limit, and Sam laughs.

They get there a few minutes later and park between two trucks, then jump out of the car and _run_. No one has bothered with subtlety or hiding, the crowd of fighters is in full view of any passer-by, although hopefully at this hour of the night no one will come looking.

It's chaos.

There are cars and trucks parked everywhere, and once inside the cemetery gates the crowd is much bigger than Sam had expected. They stand between the graves; hunters clustered in groups and talking in raised voices, yelling over each other, yelling at each other. Most of them are in ratty clothes and armed to the teeth, with a couple of exceptions, and the average age is depressingly young (Sam doesn't want to think about what that means).

Dotted among the animated humans stand about a dozen eerie figures. They are perfectly still and silent, vessels ranging from every end of the spectrum, and not only is the contrast between them and the hunters glaringly obvious, but the wide berth they've been given makes them easy to single out. Angels.

Finally, there are the Reapers, walking along (and through) the rest and looking creepy as hell, in Sam's opinion. All but one, that is.

"Dean!" Tessa runs to them and suddenly it's obvious people have begun to notice they've arrived. Rufus is pushing through the crowd to get them as well, and he's being followed closely by Jo and Ellen.

"Thank God you're here!" Rufus yells. "Goddamn Reapers are all over the place according to that fellow in the coat, but none of the angels are offering to translate! We need to organize a plan of attack! How long until the yellow-eyed demon gets here?"

"No one here is dying, how the hell were we supposed to try and communicate?" Tessa says, looking distraught. "But he's right, do we have an estimate on Azazel's time-frame?"

"Sam, are you okay?" Jo is asking at the same time. "Did the spell work? Is it safe for you to be here?"

"I'm fine, Jo, thanks..." The crowd is obviously restless, and Sam starts to pick up individual voices instead of an overall hubbub of noise.

"Who are those guys?"

"Hey, mind telling us what we're up against here?"

"Bobby vouched for them, that's enough for me."

"Are those really _angels_?"

"All right everybody quiet!" Dean shouts. The volume dulls a little, but not enough. "Everybody _shut up_!"

That works better.

"Who died and made you 'fearless leader'?" someone says in the relative silence.

"Sam did," Tessa says with a snort. Of course, none of the humans hear her. Thankfully.

"I'm Dean, uh, Smith," Dean says. Sam shoots him an incredulous look. "And I can talk to the Reapers. Yes, they are here--" he has to raise his voice because that statement causes the muttering to rise again. "--and they want to help. Sadly, I don't know when the yellow-eyed demon is gonna show up, he didn't exactly make a booking in advance."

A lot of suspicious and antagonistic features relax a little; a couple of them even smile.

"But I do know that he has to go through us to get what he wants. And what he wants is to let out all the demons from Hell." Dean casts the angels a wary look, then goes on. "We can't forget that a lot of the bad guys are angels, too, but the thing is that none of those sons of bitches can do jack shit if we don't let them in. So let's not, huh?"

"Hear hear," Bobby's voice says from somewhere.

"Has everyone done a weapons-check?" Ellen calls.

There's an obvious rustle and the sounds of everyone double or even triple-checking, and several different figures seem to take advantage of the bustle to approach them. Sam recognizes Castiel and Raphael's vessels, but he doesn't know the other two.

"Sam, Dean."

"Hey, Cas." Dean smiles briefly. "Raphy. And you are...?"

A young woman with long red hair and gorgeous dark eyes smiles back at him. "Anna."

"Anael," Raphael corrects. "Our leader."

"That's great, Anael, but we have a couple questions," another woman says. She's in a bright red shirt and leather jacket, and something about her makes Sam pause.

"You sense it, right Sam?" Castiel murmurs.

Sam frowns, and the woman rolls her eyes and then--shit. They go black.

There are six guns pointed at her within the next second (Sam, Dean, Ellen, Rufus, and Jo, who draws two).

"Casey and her people have sworn to fight with us," Anna says, hands raised in a way that's probably supposed to be soothing and peace-keeping. She's still the most powerful being in the place, though, so the guns stand down as quickly as they went up. "Thank you."

"Look, I'm not team yellow-eyes, okay?" the woman says. "This particular fight finds us on the same side, so shut your traps and accept our help."

"What happens after?" Jo demands.

"Guess you'll have to wait and see." Casey smirks, although it fades fast. "But for now, I want to know what Sam Winchester is doing here. He needs to be protected."

"Yeah, try tellin' him that," Dean grumbles.

"You and your Sam Winchester thing, I swear to God," Tessa murmurs, swatting a hand at Dean's head (it sails right through). No one seems to hear her except the angels.

"I mean no disrespect, Sam. I know you are more than capable of taking care of yourself," Casey amends. She takes a tentative step towards Sam, who isn't sure how he feels about this whole thing yet. "... It's an honor."

Sam doesn't shake her proffered hand, but he does nod and manage to say: "Thanks for helping out."

Casey smiles and takes her hand back, nodding as well, like she gets it. "I'll go organize my people."

"You do that," Rufus mutters once she's out of earshot.

"Cerberus?" Sam hears Dean ask Tessa.

"I'm sure it'll show up soon, now that you're here."

The task of organizing the hunters is shouldered efficiently by Ellen and Rufus once the small group have settled on a strategy that's minimally more complex than: "wait and attack", and Anael tells them which mausoleum is the Gate. Sam walks over to the group setting up a perimeter of spellwork and warding sigils and gets knowing looks from at least two demons and more than a few hunters; meanwhile Dean takes off to walk around with Tessa and translate her advice.

They lose track of each other for a while, until Sam hears Bobby calling his name and he goes to him at the same time as Dean is walking in the opposite direction. They cross paths right next to where the Harvelles are having a last-minute family reunion.

"... and if anything should happen--"

"Mom, for the last time, I'll be _fine_ ," Jo is groaning.

Sam darts a look at Dean, who apparently did the same at the exact same time. When their gazes connect it’s like an electric discharge.

 _If anything should happen_.

What if this ends bloody? Suddenly Sam's resolution seems meaningless. What will it matter, that he held out, that they never kissed again? What will any of that mean if they die? Worse, what if one of them dies _alone_? It's not... who cares that they share blood?

"Dean--"

"Sam, can I talk to you for a sec?"

It's reckless but all of a sudden it's as if they only have eyes for each other, and Dean pretends not to hear Tessa say: "Dean! Timing!" after Sam nods.

"Be back in five, I need to confer with my esteemed partner here for a sec," Dean says to no one in particular, but Bobby waves at them from a few feet away and Castiel nods gravely. Sam's pretty sure none of them have a clue, but if they did... he honestly doesn't care.

They don't look at each other as they walk towards the shelter of the trees, where shadows and nighttime will help hide them from view.

Sam's pulse is beating so fast it's like a steady thrum, and he might be hyperventilating--scratch that, he is definitely hyperventilating when Dean shoves him up against a tree and breathes: "Please say yes Sam, please--"

Sam, just to be contrary, doesn't say anything but breaks Dean's hold and spins them around to slam _him_ up against it.

And then he grabs Dean's face in both his hands and kisses him.

Dean makes a desperate sound low in his throat and lunges forward, throwing himself into the kiss with so much force Sam nearly stumbles backwards, their lips never pulling away. There's no fight for control because neither of them has any left; there's just adrenalin and love and the frantic desire to share the final seconds the clock is ticking down.

Sam shoves blindly into Dean and Dean does it right back, feverish friction and clothes scraping and nails raking each other's flesh where they can reach it; Sam feels Dean's fingers dig into his waist where his shirt's ridden up and he claws at Dean's back with the hand he thrust under Dean's jacket, and everything is Dean and Dean tastes like hope and family and Heaven shared--

"You--" Dean bites out when they part to breathe. "Sam, wait, you--" He grabs his hair with his other hand and tugs Sam's head back, hard because Sam is straining against it, keeps nudging forward to try and capture his mouth again. "Sam, _listen_. You don't have my permission to die, okay?"

"You don't either," Sam snaps back, and has to kiss him again, has to, because stating the obvious is pointless when he can feel something, something like time running out, any moment now...

There's a not-so-distant scream.

" _Shit_."

They spring apart and steal one last second to exchange a look of resolve. Then Dean smiles, proud and beautiful and full of determination, and Sam nods, breathing hard.

"Let's go kick it in the ass."

They burst out of the trees with guns blazing, and sprint head-first into the fray.

 

 


	5. Epilogue

Sam wakes up in Bobby's spare room to Dean's face taking up his entire field of vision.

"Rise and shine, Sammy."

"Good morning to _me_ ," he croaks, and tries for a smile. The second he starts to lift up into a sitting position his back pulls horribly and he gasps, falling back down on the bed. "Shit."

Dean's eyes flash with worry. "You okay?"

"Yeah yeah, it's just... my back again. S'fine. I... are you okay?"

He remembers a lot of confusion and yelling and the steely flash of angelic blades swishing through the air; the roar when Cerberus joined the fray and sent Azazel's hellhounds scuttling like scared pups. He remembers demons fighting demons and angels fighting angels, a positive meleé of humanoid shapes.

He also remembers fighting beside Dean the whole time, that whenever they were separated they'd battle their way back to each other, and Dean was still standing by the end of it. Dean was safe and alive. Tessa and her Reapers left to deal with the souls of the dead, but Dean is here.

"I'm good, Sammy. Not a scratch on me." He smiles. "You're good too, yeah? You're sure?"

"We covered me, remember?" Sam says. The pale light of dawn has filtered through the curtains and it seems to be closer to early morning rather than midday. They never slept the night of the triumph in Wyoming, of course, because there were too many people injured and things to deal with, despite the fact that the remaining angels left after conveniently vanishing away all bodies and evidence.

"What time is it?"

Bobby produced a mattress for Dean to use on the floor (his houseguests had multiplied exponentially, most of them wounded hunters who needed tending to) and they'd finally let themselves collapse around mid-afternoon yesterday, which must mean they've slept for at least ten hours straight. That's a new record.

"A bit early," Dean admits. "Um, sorry. I hope I didn't wake you, I was just... I woke up five minutes ago and I thought I'd check you were still breathing and stuff."

"Still breathing," Sam confirms, deciding to attempt sitting up again. It hurts like hell, but he manages it this time.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah."

"How's about I do that cream thing for you now, huh?"

Sam stills. Oh. Does that mean...? What does that mean? He has no clue where they are with this thing between them (love, family...? Whatever it is), and he doesn't know how he's supposed to act anymore. The hectic hours since they kissed allowed no time, either to talk or... not to talk.

"Uh... that's okay. I'll be fine if I just stretch a little and, like... don't move around a lot?"

Dean looks unimpressed. "Dude."

"You sure?"

"As sure as you taking off your shirt."

Since Dean is on his knees on the floor and Sam is still half-lying on the bed they are almost at eye-level, and that's a bad thing for Sam's resolve. Sam's resolve doesn't do too well with Dean's bright green eyes in the gentle light of breaking dawn, golden flecks in them seeming to glow.

"Or d'you want your big brother to do it for you."

Sam hides his shiver by pulling the shirt over his head. Dean keeps his gaze firmly locked with Sam's, and it seems to be taking a bit of effort but he determinedly does _not_ look down at Sam's chest.

The little triumphant smirk Sam allows himself fades fast, however, as he realizes his bag is behind him and he'll have to turn around. Back to Dean. Bare.

"It's..." In the end he does it quickly, mid-sentence, like ripping off a bandaid. "It's not pretty, sorry."

Dean doesn't answer, and Sam pulls the duffel onto the mattress next to him and starts rumaging, because he's not sure he wants to see the look on Dean's face.

"Sam, dude, I was expecting some harcore Freddy Krueger stuff. This ain't even that bad."

Sam smiles, kind of shaken but hoping it doesn't show, and Dean grins back.

"You find it?"

He shuffles over to help Sam look for the tub of cream and pulls out... a necklace instead.

"Didn't take you for the kind of guy who wears jewellery," Dean says, staring at it. Sam stares at it too, confused for a long moment until he finally remembers.

"Oh. Bobby gave it to me. It's some sort of amulet. For protection, I think." He forgot, completely. It's not exactly an attractive peice; simple black cord and a clunky golden figurehead attatched, but Sam finds himself regretting his carelessness anyway.

"Nice." Dean holds it out against Sam's bare chest, as though imagining what it'd look like around Sam's neck.

Sam has a different idea, though. "You want it?"

"Me?"

"Yeah." Sam takes the cord from Dean's fingers and mirrors what he was doing; holding it over the ratty gray T-shirt Dean wore to sleep in. It looks... right. "You like it?"

Dean grins, huge and bright and clearly very very happy with it. "Yeah, Sam. I love it."

"Great. Then it's yours."

Sam's fingers close around the tube of cream and he feels his smile dim a little. Dean catches him immediately, obviously.

"Give me that." He pulls the amulet over his neck and motions for the cream. "And turn around so I can lather you up."

Sam obeys, sitting near the edge with his back to Dean and gripping his ankles with his hands. It hurts but the physical pain is the last thing on his mind. He doesn't want to make Dean do something he might not want to do, something like putting his hands all over the unattractive flesh marred by strips of rough tissue.

He hears Dean uncap the thing and then the squirt of gel. Moments later, a soft wet hand is gently pressing at his shoulder. The feeling in Sam's back has been fucked up since the fire, and it's mostly numb; like touching his skin through cardboard, but this is a bit different.

Dean's fingers are thick and firm, kneading and sliding around the planes of muscle without hesitation. The sensation is powerful and strange, because there are areas like his right shoulder-blade where the feeling is definitely dulled, but then there are others where it seems to be augmented, and Dean doesn't discriminate between either. Until now, Sam has been the only one to touch himself here, and it's... yes, it's _definitely_ different.

"You gotta tell me if I'm doing this wrong, okay? I'm not exactly an expert here."

"You're perfect," Sam groans, and then hears himself and the voice he used to say those words, and backtracks like the coward he is. "I mean, I've had worse."

Dean chuckles warmly and lets it go without comment.

His lower back gets a thorough work-over and Sam can feel his spine begin to lose rigidity, everything loosening slowly under the assault from Dean's hands. When Dean digs his fingers into the dimples above Sam's ass he can't help but twitch and shift his hips.

Dean mutters: "Okay?" and "This hurt?" every once in a while, and Sam puts serious effort into keeping his replies as even and smooth as possible. It's increasingly hard (yes, that too), especially since he's starting to breathe more roughly with every passing minute, having to open his mouth so Dean doesn't hear the telltale panting of air being rushed in and out.

One particularly good knot has Sam letting out an ill-concealed little yip.

"Sammy?"

"Y-yeah. Fine."

Dean stills. Fuck, that tone belonged in pornography, what the hell was he thinking? Sam curses himself, wanting to die from embarrassment (and have it stick, this time).

"Sam?" Dean whispers.

"Uh, yeah. Sorry," Sam says, trying to sound off-hand. He seriously has no idea how he's supposed to act; what Dean wants him to do. Because he'll do it, whatever it is; he'll be whatever Dean needs him to be, but he just needs to _know_.

After a silent, tense pause, Dean resumes his work.

Sam is painfully hard, at this point. Hard and leaking. In fact, he can feel a drop of precome rolling down the underside of his cock where the tent in his sweats has allowed for some space, and its progress is maddeningly slow. The pants are, of course, nowhere near loose neough to hide anything, so it's a matter of time, really.

He can't help leaning back a little into Dean's hands when they dig into a particularly painful knot, and if his head almost lolls with pleasure a couple of times... well. He's going to enjoy this while he can, because any second now Dean will look over and see, or he'll do something so amazingly good Sam will crack and finally let out the stupidly wanton moan building low in his throat--

"All right look, I can't fucking take this anymore," Dean snaps, voice strained.

Sam's pulse sky-rockets and his heart jumps up to his mouth.

"Sammy I'm sorry, but I need you to paint me a fucking sign or som _-mph_ \--"

Sam twists around so fast their teeth clack. His hand flies to the front of Dean's pants and yes, fuck, Dean's hard too, Dean wants this, Dean wants _him_ even with everything.

"Jesus, _yes_ ," Dean mumbles into his mouth, and Sam's too desperate and Dean's too eager and they end up losing their balance and falling on the mattress on the floor, and it doesn't _matter_ because they just laugh, nothing matters, really, nothing except Dean, Dean, _Dean_ \--

Dean's hands slide down Sam's slick back in a single smooth move and keep going; all the way into his pants, cupping his ass with one cheek in each palm. "Swear to God, Sam, you have a fucking _perfect_ ass."

"Christ, do you _ever_ shut up?" Sam pants, grinning. He grinds them together and Dean throws his head back, hitting the thin foam a little too hard and wincing.

"Fuck, _ow_ \--no, do that again--"

" _Don't_ do that again?"

Dean glares up at him and wraps his legs around Sam's hips, shoving upwards and making them both gasp.

"Okay, yeah, okay," Sam agrees, rocking down and leaning forward to mouth at Dean's stubbled jaw, biting and sucking while Dean continues to roll his hips at a ruthless pace, ankles digging into the small of Sam's back.

The thin mattress gets pushed around every which way as the thumping rhythm of their movements increases, until Sam is starting to feel light-headed and too happy and too close to the edge of release.

"Dean, slow down or I'll..."

"Already?" But Dean's irises are a thin ring of green around dilated black pupil, and his movements are getting shuddery and clumsy. "Damn, Sammy..."

"Slow... _down_ \--"

Suddenly Dean's right leg stretches to push behind Sam's left knee and he's rolling them, flattening Sam underneath him. When he pins Sam's wrists above his head Sam whimpers and gives up on holding off, thrusting up desperately, completely out of it--

"Fuck fuck _f-fuck_ \--"

"That what you want? To _fuck_?" Dean pants, and Sam's done, that is _it_ , coming in his pants like a teenager. He shudders and gasps and grinds against Dean's hips to ride it out, testing the grip Dean has on him and groaning helplessly at how tight and controlled it is.

"Jesus fucking Christ Sammy," Dean croaks, can't even get the air out to speak, and Sam thinks _'I just did that, that's because of me'_ and feels his heart swell three sizes. He tugs Dean's shirt off (maybe rips it a bit, whatever) and flips them over again, this time kissing down Dean's neck and chest, exploring the smooth skin taut over firm muscle. He traces the intricate design of Dean's anti-possession tatoos and finally gets to confirm that Dean does indeed have freckles all over. He maps them, shoulders to hips, and thinks of organic sugar again and how sweet it is.

"Love you," he mumbles against Dean's skin.

Dean's heaving chest abruptly hitches and stops.

"W-what?"

"You heard me."

Sam looks up at him through his bangs, no glasses so it's a little diffuse but he smiles anyway and he can tell they're okay.

Dean huffs out a sharp breath. "Jesus, Sam, me too, like it wasn't fucking obvious."

Sam chuckles and slides a little to the side so his thigh fits between Dean's bowed legs, the hard press of Dean's erection making him grin. He goes back to mouthing at Dean's chest, and when his teeth graze a nipple Dean shivers, whole body going rigid. "Okay?" Sam breathes over the wet skin.

Dean slides a hand into his hair, pushing him back down. "Yeah, y-yeah Sam, please--"

Sam manages to slip a hand between them and leaves it right over the elastic of Dean's waistband, mutters: "Can I...?" and gets a "Do it do it _do it_ ," through clenched teeth. His fingers have barely closed around Dean's cock when he sucks on the tight nub and Dean jerks, cock hardening even further and then shooting between their bellies, slick and hot.

When Dean's done, Sam rolls off sluggishly and drops next to him so they lie side-by-side. He spends about ten seconds fighting the urge to look at his brother until he loses, and lets his head fall to the side to take in the sight of Dean's blissfully spent features. Relaxed and calm, with beads of sweat making his skin faintly glow and clumping his long eyelashes together, Dean is so gorgeous it's kind of unreal.

Sam hears a raspy angelic voice in his head telling him that " _The fact that you are brothers is quite secondary to that bond_ ," and thinks maybe 'secondary' isn't exactly the right word, but the statement rings true nevertheless.

" _Jesus_ ," Dean exhales, running a hand through his hair.

Sam nudges him on the arm. "Please don't say that, it reminds me of Castiel."

There's a beat of silence and then they both burst out laughing, dirty and messy and not even fully naked, which is something Sam firmly believes should be rectified soon. They skip breakfast.

*

Everyone is tired and a victory doesn't erase the fact that they lost good people two days ago, so when Sam and Dean finally make it downstairs for lunch they don't have it in them to protest the ridiculously loud jeers and impromptu round of applause caused by their appearance. There are wolf-whistles, congratulations, and Jo wrote "WOW!!!" on a sheet of paper that gets passed around. Sam can feel his blush all the way to the roots of his hair, but Dean looks like he's bursting with pride and he even takes a little bow, right before Sam shoves him towards the kitchen for some food.

"You realize this means they heard us, right?"

"Pretty sure you won this round, Sammy. And duh."

"You were _way_ louder than me."

"Was _not_ \--"

"It was a tie!" someone calls from the living room.

...That shuts them up for good.

Ten minutes later Sam sits at the table with his laptop while Dean browses the paper, and when he rolls his shoulders they are light and loose. At ease.

It feels like a beginning.

 

 

 

 

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much for reading!
> 
> As always, feedback is much loved :)


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